Nap Time

Call me Mother of the Year.

This is in memoriam to my favorite time of the day: Nap Time. Sadly, it is gone.

Like most toddlers (or so I am told) Peanut has given up on the daily nap. It's not much of a surprise, considering how much energy the child burns. Plus, I had been duly warned by various Mommy cohorts. The sagest advice comes from Nana and Grammy with their suggestion of "Quiet Time". I would think of this as a sensible idea, if not for the fact that Peanut snickers at the mere idea of quiet. If I didn't know three-year-olds were incapable of sarcasm, I would hold that the laughter would have that description. Then again, he is my child. Is it possible that sarcasm be passed through the umbilical cord? What a thought!

I remember with longing the days when my child napped for three to four hours at a time. While I was as exhausted as he, I realize that I got stuff done. Even when he went to two two-hour naps, showers were taken, laundry done, the house cleaned. With one nap a day, I still managed my work and even some desperately needed down time myself.

And now it's gone. And I have no idea how to cope.

There is one bright spot. Peanut is content to play with the trains by himself on rare occasions. Perhaps there is now the hope, however slim, that there will be moments of peace in my day. If nothing else, I'll steal them as soon as Boomer walks through the door.

Call me Mother of the Year.

Bouncing

Call me Mother of the Year.

Peanut was allowed to go to Bounce Bounce today. And there was much rejoicing.

Bounce Bounce is a parent's dream or nightmare, depending on the toddler. For me, depending on the moment. Peanut considers it Toddler Nirvana. He can go nuts (and does) bouncing around an air-filled obstacle course. What could be better? Bouncing into other kids. Naturally.

I spend most of our time explaining (shouting) that we do NOT need to knock down the other kids and Mommy is not a part of the obstacle course. A couple of kids bounce into him, and he gets the first part of my message. Mommy is eternally part of Peanut's Obstacle Course of Life, and he's either going to knock himself out or knock me out. Not sure yet which it's going to be, or which will be preferable.

Thankfully, he's given up on the Attack of the Mommy in favor of the trains. Doggy Luke is thrilled because he knows once Peanut gets started, it's only a matter of time before Second Favorite Human gets on his level. I suspect I'll spend the rest of my afternoon alternating between Train Conductor and Belly Rubber. Wish me luck.

Call me Mother of the Year.

Stickers

Call me Mother of the Year.

Peanut, Boomer and I went to dinner with Grammy and Game Boy. This usually involves at least one temper tantrum from a certain toddler who does not understand the meaning of patience. Peanut labors under the belief that once food is requested, it should be served immediately. Obviously, this does not happen in even the best restaurants. Thus the tantrum.

Grammy, being a wise woman (and former Mommy of boy toddler), has fixed this little problem. After we order and while Peanut is still fascinated with stuffing his mouth with bread, she breaks out a small pad of paper and old mailing labels. She informs Peanut that these are stickers and would he like to put them on the paper?

Would he ever!

This is incredible! He's quiet, well-behaved, and enthralled at the thought of these stickers staying right where he puts them! No matter how many times he moves them (and make no mistake, he does), they stick to the paper, Grammy's hand, his hand, his sweater. This is arguably cooler than even the trains and Lightning McQueen. Even being told not to put the stickers on the table is okay. I'm in shock. How did this happen? And why the @#$* didn't I think of this?

Perhaps this is where Mother of the Year gets her title. Learn from others. Especially others who have been there and done that. Watch and understand their example. Follow it, and the unspoken advice, and errors will hopefully be minor.

Call me Mother of the Year.

Advice of the Mommy

Call me Mother of the Year.

For reasons I don't quite understand, I'm considered by a few friends as their Mommy Guru. Apparently, when they have children of their own, they plan on calling me for advice. While I confess I'm flattered, and realize this is mainly due to my been-there-done-that status, I must add that I am supremely unqualified for this accolade.

Motherhood is a continual surprise, and I'm a girl who doesn't always like surprises. Boomer still has some explaining to do about the whole sneaking in Evil Twin for the birthday thing, but that's another blog. I liked to plan ahead, to know where things are going. And then Peanut was born.

Just when I think I have Peanut figured out, his needs, his wants, his still massive objection to the potty (okay, still don't get that one), he confuses me once again. He goes through more mood swings than diapers. Today was no exception. He went from happy to have his sippy cup and Mickey Mouse Clubhouse to cranky that I picking up on the toast craving to ditching said toast five minutes later to complete ecstasy because I got on the floor and played conductor of the train. It was the only time today I was in charge. I should mention that conductor gig was supplemented by belly scratches to Doggy Luke, who was most pleased by second-favorite human on his level and took full advantage.

How do I advise non-Mommy friends about this?

The answer: I don't. I'll be happy to offer all manner of advice about the best maternity clothes (don't worry, it isn't your butt that looks big) and labor (EPIDURAL!!!) but as for actual child rearing, they're on their own. I shall wait in the wings, laughing from experience as they explode on the latest what-my-child-did-now episode, reminisce, and know that my title has been passed on.

Call me Mother of the Year.