April 12, 2010

I Get Out

In much the same vein as my "Things I Would Never Do" post, I always believed that my children would be potty trained by two and sleeping in real, adult four-poster beds by the age of twenty-four months.

Two more strikes against me.

Recently, I became resigned to the fact that I really do not care if my son has a pacifier until he goes to college, or wears diapers to his junior prom. The thought of wrenching the night-time paci away from his death grip, coupled with saying "good boy, you get an M&M for poopy", all the while trying to keep his sister alive and well, working a full-time job with a nasty commmute AND with a husband who now is traveling like an Avon lady...well, it all just seemed insane.


So I quit. I just gave it up and stopped caring entirely about pacis, potty-training and the impending big boy bed. Stella's thumbsucking also does not bother me in the least. In fact, I probably encourage it. She looks like Linus when she carries a dirty t-shirt from the laundry pile whilst sucking her thumb, and we ooh and ahh over her general cuteness. Also, where I pushed James into using a spoon by his first birthday, I just let Stella eat pasta, potatoes and cheese grits with her hands, like a little miniature cavewoman. Who cares, I think. She will eventually use a spoon, fork or other utensil. Or she will eat creme brulee with her hands at her junior prom, alongside her diaper-wearing brother.

Another strike.

Of course, if motherhood has taught me anything (not sure it has, just saying), it's the fact that kids always have other plans in store. For instance, Jason walked upstairs to wake James up from his nap on Friday. He says, "Come on, buddy, let's get out." James looks at him, hops up and says, "I get out." He throws his leg over the rail of the crib, does some lightning fast little maneuver, and he's standing on the floor. He got out. By himself. The monkey is officially loose.

Therefore, my plan for not caring about the big boy bed has unraveled and I am officially caring, lest I wake up at three in the morning, to a little boy face hovering next to me, saying "I get out" and squealing with glee. Which I am sure will happen in the next four days while my husband is out of town. The thought of waking up to a face curiously staring back at me is right up there with my fear of killer whales and being buried alive. Just freaks me out.

I'm not sure my way around this one.

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