They're coming to take me away Hee Hee, Ha Ha, Ho Ho

The lyrics of Dr. Demento's "They're coming to take me away" have been running through my head today.

My house isn't just messy at this point.  It's catastrophic.  I'm talking WW4-style destruction.

Don't mistake me.  I clean.  Not in that spotless, "I'm keeping my house camera-ready at all times just in case Better Homes and Gardens wants to snap a few quick pics at a moment's notice" kind of way.  I clean in that, "organized clutter" kind of way.  Where if you give me a 30 minute heads up before you "pop" over, I can sweep the crumbs under the couch and give the bathrooms a cursory scrub.

Yesterday I decided to be ambitious.  I decided that I would give the floors the thorough scrubbing they need.  The kind where you move the furniture and unhome the dust bunnies, where you get down on your hands and knees and not only scrub the floors, but the baseboards and maybe work your way up the walls too.  After all, what's the point of having floors so shiny, they reflect filthy walls?  (We put Monkey in Mother's Day Out twice a week, so I knew in theory this was a possibility.)

Why, oh why, did I wake up feeling so ambitious??

The second we got him home in the afternoon, he did what he does.  He opened his bag of gold fish crackers and dumped them all over the floor.  Then he crunched them under his shoe before I could get to him.  I died a little inside.  I didn't want to, I understand he's just doing what babies do at his age.  But I did.  I died.  Just a little.

And it's not just that.  It's that no matter what, my family makes messes.  Messes that they don't even see.  Messes that drive me absolutely bat-crap crazy in that "white padded walls" way.  Food particles all over the floor, popcorn kernel pieces ground in-between the sofa cushions, toothpaste spittle on the mirror, dried muck in the bottom of the sink.  They see none of this. 

I'm doing my best to train them to be better.  To do better.  To see the filth.  I feel like as a mom, it's my job to prepare my kids for life after me.  When they graduate high school and go out into the world to find their own way, my boys need to be able to do their own laundry, feed themselves, get from point A to point B, and keep a clean living space. It drives me nuts to see the newest generations absolutely dependent on other people to live their lives.  I don't know if it's a shift in priorities, that they just don't care, or if their parents waited on them hand and foot rendering them completely useless to society.  My kids won't be like that.

So for today, I'll let the mess stand.  I'll make Monkey pick up his toys when he gets up from his nap.  I'll make Chunk clean his bathroom when he gets home from school (he's 12, it's good for him).  Maybe one day they'll do it all on their own.  That's the day I hope for in the future.

Battle of the Mattress

At least twice a day, a heavy weight match fight takes place in my bedroom.  The Terrible Toddler and I go a few rounds in a fight to the finish.  There's clawing, screaming, kicking, biting and crying.  Sometimes it's me.  Sometimes it's him.

He fights sleep like it's a fight to the death.

You'd never know that there is a raging Toddler monster inside my sweet, tow-headed baby - especially if you met us in Walmart.  And especially if you have grandchildren of your own.  He loves Nana's.  He flirts mercilessly, shamelessly begging for attention and smiles.  And they all coo about how he must be just the absolute sweetest tempered baby on the face of the earth!  And they would be wrong.

Our battle begins about 10 minutes before we start attempting the nap.  I'm watching him and he glances my way.  Our eyes lock across the room.  I see it.  That look in his eyes that says he's fading. 

I have to prepare for his nap.  It's never the same from day to day.  Not because we do different things.  We don't.  His willingness to go down fighting never fades.  My determination to get a break doesn't either.  But we have a routine.  The stage has to be set.  I try to sneak into my room to start the prep work.

White noise machine on?  Check.

TV turned to kids' programming on PBS?  Check.

Pillows arranged to keep him in the center of the bed??  For now.

He comes to investigate why my bedroom door is open.  He beelines for my jewelry armoire, flinging the doors open.  My necklaces jingle as he tangles them together.  It's only a temporary distraction.

Next it's his cup.  I'm not trying to upset the beast before I have to.  But the sound of the fridge opening brings him running.  He sees the milk jug.  The whining starts.  The reaching.  The feet stomping.  He's attempting to scale the cupboard to reach the counter.  He wants his cup.  He's not getting it until he's in bed.  He throws himself onto the floor, screaming uncontrollably now.  He won't walk with me into the bedroom, I have to reach down and pick him up.  He's kicking and flailing his arms.  A knee batters my kidney.   He throat punches me with his fist.  He's strong for a 1 year old.  It's only getting worse from here.

I lay him on the bed and hand him the milk cup.  He sinks back against the pillows and for the moment, all I can hear is the sucking sounds as he downs it.  It's only a few short moments of peace, there's only about 5 ounces in there.  As soon as the last drop is gone, the cup sails across the room with lightening speed.  He's going to be the best quarterback in the NFL with an arm like that.  (Or a pitcher for the St. Louis Cardinals if Daddy has his way.)

Now, the real battle begins.  He smiles because he has a full belly.  It's a trap.  He wants me to think he's not sleepy.  I'm not an amateur.  This is not my first Toddler.  I lay down next to him.  He giggles and climbs on me, bouncing up and down on my stomach (which is killing my previously damaged kidney).  He tries crawling backwards to the edge of the bed.  He giggles as I pull him back to me.  He thinks this is a game.  I pull him to me and hold him close.  He stretches and pulls away from me.  We lock eyes (and horns).

From the outside, I imagine we look like two MMA fighters on the mat - wrapped around each other, one fighter attempting to subdue the other into submission.  He's screaming, he's hitting.  But I'm not giving up either.

I loosen my grip and he slides off my chest onto the bed.  He butts the top of his head into my armpit.  I reach around and softly pat him on the bottom.  He turns his head and bites the soft inside of my upper arm.  He bites hard.  He crawls up on my chest again, legs straddling my abdomen, ear against my heart.  He cuddles momentarily.  Then the spark in his eyes goes off and it's time for Round Two.

We tussle like this for about 20 minutes, going back and forth between him laying on me and laying beside me; crying and silent; violent and sweet.  He finally gives up.  I can tell by the way his body is rhythmically rising and falling with each breath. 

I roll him onto the bed and sit up.  I can't go far - can't even leave the bed.  He feels it when I do and wakes up.  He's not a heavy sleeper.  Not like his older brother.

But, for now, it's silent in the house.  I never appreciated quiet the way I do now.  The absence of sound can be a beautiful thing in the middle of the day.  No screeching baby, no barking dog, no phones, no TV.  Just the ceiling fan gently circulating air.  The white noise machine muffling the noises outside the bedroom.  The finally sleeping baby next to me.  I won this battle.  And I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I win the next one, too.

Welcome to my not-so-humble abode...

The floors are sticky.  The furniture is coated in pet hair.  The rug rats are on the loose and judging by the look in their eyes, they're not taking prisoners.

It's my home, sweet asylum.

You're welcome to come in and visit.

We're snarky, sarcastic, and sometimes rude.  But we're real.