Motherhood Uncensored

Mommy's little one-upper

I was all ready to write an enthusiastic post about Margot peeing on the potty this morning but then my internet (and cable and phone service) was out for the entire day and I was forced, by the universe no doubt (or at least as interpreted by my BFF) to take a little internet vacation.

And I should have known better than to plan a post about success in potty training because apparently the peeing in the potty because Mommy was doing it at the same time was a one-time thing.

But earlier this evening, she handed me piece of her crap.

And she's right. That is much more interesting to hear about than a little piss in a tiny plastic potty.

Pick your battles

The combination of separation anxiety and the sleep regression that will never end has officially put the fear of God, or at least, whomever willed it that I would have a child still in my bed when I am soon to have another child in my bed.

All this from a person doesn't really love having any children in her bed. And from a child who was, by far, my best sleeper.

Sweet, torturous irony.

I opened the section of my favorite sleep book for parents to the section on the 18-22 month sleep regression and I swear it said "Sleep train your 2-year-old? YOU HAVE LOST YOUR FRACKING MIND."

And really, anything you read about this time in a toddler's development can be paraphrased down to: "Stick it out, sucker."

For awhile, I was freaking out - desperately trying to get her to at least sleep on her own mattress on our floor, hoping the now vacant trundle in Quinlan's room that was occupied by her brother up until last week when he moved back into his own room would entice her.

No such luck.

Instead, she would just scream her bloody guts out, keeping everyone else in the house awake.

So I've resigned myself to laying with her in my bed until she falls asleep, then moving her to her own bed, and then bringing her back into mine when she wakes up screaming at 2am because the two feet between us is too damn far. 

I suppose this is all reorienting me back into newborndom, since I'm waking up every few hours to turn her around or cover her up.

The only difference is that my boobs are well rested and I'm not changing diapers in the dark.

Hers or mine.

If there's anything I've learned over the last six years is that there will always be battles. I've just got to choose which ones I'm willing to fight and the ones where I know I'm going to win. 

Mommy's Little Cliche'

If you've ever been secretly smug (me!) or breathed a sigh of relief (so me!) when you've seen a toddler throw a demonically possessed tantrum in the middle of the grocery store aisle then I'm going to wager a guess that you've only got a couple of kids. Not that my first two were angels recently graduated from Emily Post's school for Well Behaved Toddlers or anything but along came my third child, or as I'm lovingly calling her - the little cliche' that has bitten me square on the ass cheeks.

I can remember only one time in the history of parenting my older two kids that one of them sprawled themselves on the ground screaming. Mind you, it was a doozy at around 5am at the Philadelphia International Airport, but I think we can all say that sometimes having to deal with TSA can make a grown adult do such things.

But Margot has absolutely perfected the stopping, dropping, and rolling, kicking and screaming on the dirty ass floor which is pretty advanced when it comes to fire prevention but not so great when you're just trying to find a bra with two different sized cups at Victoria's Secret. I can't even figure out exactly what sets her off - days that start with "T" or "S"? The zit on my chin that I can't stop picking? BP?

But something will set her off and she'll go from insanely sweet and adorable to "I'm going to cut you with my handmade toothbrush shank" in three seconds flat, and there is no consoling or bartering or even completely paying her off with sugary substances.

It's Three Mile Island - and I'm cleaning that shit up with a Swiffer.

And now she's decided she hates pants. Or shorts. Or bloomers. Or now even dresses.

Sometimes. I think. Maybe.

Which, if you're following all this, is basically all clothing except shirts, which she will happily wear and does so in our house but alas does not look that great in public places, except while playing in a yard with wheel-less cars up on bricks and washers and dryers on the porch.

No offense to those of you with washers and dryers on your porch. Well, working ones anyway.

We figured out that she kept waking up at night because her legs were getting cold, so now we have to sneak them on her in the middle of the night.

They're pajama pants. Last time I checked, they never hurt anyone. In fact, they're actually kind of cool in that THEY KEEP YOUR LEGS WARM AT NIGHT LITTLE GIRL.

Yesterday afternoon she picked a onesie out to wear to dinner, but then fought us while we tried to put that on her. You'd think that we were chasing her through the house with a gigantic cleaver in our hands and yet it's a dress she just happily wore the day before.

And all those times I remember hearing these "urban myths" of toddlers who don't like to wear clothes and would sooner spend the day completely naked.

Little did I know that they were all third children. Cute and charming as hell, and apparently sent to us to ensure that we get the full parenting experience we so willingly signed up for.

Third

There is very little that Margot can call her very own.

She's now completely in big sister hand-me-downs. Toys bought just for her are still ridden, used, and abused by her siblings - though not without shrieking protests.

And I'm pretty sure her vocabulary is based solely on what she hears the older two spout off. 

"Have an original thought there Margot!" I'll joke, as she rips off her shirt or blows bubbles in her milk, only seconds after her brother does the same exact thing.

But yet she is not a replica of her sister. Or hidden in the shadow of her big brother.

Her own presence is known. And owned.

Not to be confused.

Reminiscent, perhaps. 

Imitating, but never duplicating.

She's forging her own way. Making her own memories.

And taking up residence in her very own section of my heart.

Baby sleep regression solved!