Needless to say, the transition home, post-vacation has been rocky. I can always tell when my mind is full when I don't consider blogging, or when stories for this venue don't form in my head.
After tasting the freedom of "getting me out" of his bed on vacation, Big has been unwilling to go back into his crib for bedtimes, nor has he been willing to move into a "big-boy-bed" (i.e. a mattress on the floor). This has translated into me having little time to either work or to stop and breathe, either during the early afternoon (former naptime) or that quiet time between the kid's bed and our own. This, plus BioMom's recently heightened travel schedule (read: no relief) has seriously put my sanity in question.
Of course, every parent has been through this. No new story. But knowing that other people have lived, and that chances are, I will too, is not always helpful when you're in the middle of it.
Essentially, at bedtime, we go through our whole routine, I put him in his crib, sing a song or two, plant a kiss on his forehead and head out. At unpredictable intervals, he gets out over and over. Supernanny is in my head as I pick him up and without any fanfare, quietly put him back, attempting to ignore his pleas for "more songs".
This can go on for hours. Picking him up, putting him back, him getting up and out and asking for songs. At some point, my arms are sore, the sun is down and I crash in my bed, hoping that I've turned on the alarm so that if he does wander around, at least he won't head outside.
Unsolicited advice has included putting a lock on the outside of the door so that he can't get out of his room.
This feels wrong to me at some in-my-bones level. Not that I'm judging any of you that have done that. His door sticks now, and there are times when he can't get it open and I can hear the terror in his voice. Maybe it's manipulation. If so, I'm manipulated.
The other day, after hours of attempting to get him to nap, and focus on the book review that was due last month, I finally retreated and headed out front only to greet Eight coming home from camp. I saw her and nearly cried knowing that she was right in this moment, that he had taken all of my resources and that I had nothing left to give her other than to direct her to a snack, the television and, ultimately mother-of-four's house for a little playtime.
That night we all headed to the little neighborhood wading pool in an attempt to collectively wear Big out so that the evening would go a bit better.
I was the only adult carrying a G&T, and, after a few sips at the side of the pool, I didn't even mind the few splashes of chlorine that Big had added to the glass.
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