Condensing the Craziness

There are a number of websites that will help new parents calculate how much money a baby will cost them throughout his or her life.  I'm not even going to visit one of these sites as an example, since I already know that the website overlords making these calculations don't have Cael.

In addition to the traditional expenses of feeding and clothing a child, paying for medical expenses, education and the like, all parents should have a realistic understanding that all of their material possessions will soon look like crap.  Not my most eloquent statement, I know, but true nonetheless.  The phrase "We just can't have nice things" was uttered by a tired and likely partially deaf mommy experiencing an "aha moment". 

You see, we are in the middle of a mini makeover at our house.  There won't be any construction or renovation, but Joel and I are finally upgrading our master bedroom.  Every time one of us would roll over in bed, our wooden-framed queen bed would creak and grown as if to say, "hheeeellpp!"  And, at 6:06 am daily, a 12-armed monkey climbs into bed with us and somehow manages to execute a flawless gymnastic floor routine.

It's time for a king.

We set out to the furniture store on Monday night, determined to take advantage of the no-interest financing that would make biting the proverbial bullet a little less painful.  Another parenting misstep.  I'm guilty of committing them from time to time.  On this occasion, my misstep was a lack of foreshadowing.  Have you ever looked up the definition of painful?

pain·ful  (pnfl)

adj.

1. Causing pain.

2. Full of pain.

3. Attempting to contain two small children in a furniture store for three hours.

"Whoa, look at that mother.  Dealing with those kids must be painful."

The employees at the furniture store had cautiously marked the bunk beds and children's furniture with signs that read, "Please do not climb on the furniture.  Thank You."  Although I did have to remind Cael of this rule several dozen times, he did somewhat comply.  Unfortunately, the management neglected to post a sign saying, "Please don't climb in the bunk bed, get under the covers and take your shoes off." Chances are good he also let one or two rip while he was under those sheets.  I wouldn't put it past him.

After being confined to the car so that Daddy could close the deal, we finally arrived home Monday night, so far beyond both boys' bedtimes that my anxiety level was already on the rise knowing what Tuesday would bring.  When the day starts at 6:06 every day regardless of bedtime, there's little one can do to prevent tantrums and grouchiness.  Sure, I considered loading them up with Benadryl to keep them asleep longer, but it was just a fleeting thought.  I'd never drug my kids for my own convenience.  I might consider it, though.  Just for a second.

Although we purchased new bedding/towels/curtains when we moved to this house, the transition to a king bed requires purchasing everything again, and despite my husband's best efforts, I was able to convince him that matching towels and bathmats are a true necessity as well.  I'd like this room to be the escape it was intended to be; the one place in our home where I am not a slave to mommyhood, which can often be an assault on all five senses.  Yes, even taste.  Sure, it's a long shot-- as I mentioned before, the kids are in the bed frequently and there's no real privacy to our mornings, but that's a problem easily solved by a strong lock or a big piece of chocolate.  It's like rawhide for kids.

Tuesday night brought with it a trip to Target to purchase the linens and corresponding accessories.  What should have been an hour long trip (at most) took almost three, thanks to 2 trips to the potty, a disagreement over towel patterns, one phone call to our credit card company to turn our card back on (it had been turned off due to "excessive spending" which they viewed as potentially fraudulent), a great quest for a rug in the soon-to-be boys' room, and a partridge in a pear tree.

Yep, you heard it right-- we are going to put the boys in one room.  We have four bedrooms in the house, so sharing isn't a necessity, but with Cael's room being in the basement and us upstairs, we thought they might find some security in being together.  They might kill each other, too.  It's hard to predict just exactly how this scenario might play out.  I figure that by trapping them in one room we are either containing and therefore limiting the craziness in our home or we are condensing it and making it more potent.  I'm hoping for the former.  If you have found it to be otherwise, please keep this information to yourself.  I'm happy in my Benadryl-like haze of naivety.

As we left Target we were tired, a bit grouchy, and a little hesitant of this change.  As we checked out (after the embarrassment of our declined card) the manager stopped to say hello to my incredibly beautiful boys.  To Cael:

"Oh my goodness, you are so handsome.  I love your curly hair!"

"You have a bottom!"

Yeah, some nights are just like that.