A Tale of Two Mommies

…because more seems excessive…

Hitting the Fan

I don’t think I truly could call myself a parent before yesterday.  Apparently, a two-year-old sleep regression is a thing, and Little Man is in the midst of one.  I suspected from the get-go this wasn’t a transition eliminating his naps entirely, but he isn’t napping nonetheless, despite his marked Walking Dead audition sequence for the last week.

Until yesterday his sleep deprived state mostly had him wanting to increase his Mommy time with me reading or singing, sometimes just sitting next to him while he plays quietly on the floor.  He would save his death and destruction until Daddy returned home from work.  Yesterday, however, the day of his delirious chaos initiated immediately after returning from his favorite playground, prompted me to send him to a very early nap.

With the monitor sound on it was a strange nap forty-five minutes in.  As has been the case for the last week, he refused to lay down, choosing to stand and sing to himself, but then he professed squeaks of displeasure.  Maybe he pooped.  I climbed the stairs to check.  Nope.  I quickly reassured him, and subsequently left the room.  Another forty-five minutes into his performance had him crying suddenly.  A bit more swiftly I climb the stairs to a diaper greeting me on the white carpeted floor.  Within the open diaper was a rather substantial offering, and the room stank.  Upon my entry, Little Man increases his wails thinking I’m mad at him.  I can’t say if any emotion registered, but I plucked my son who was giving his best impression of a lobster retrieved from a tank.  Starfish limbs and me holding him a bit out from me, I take him to the changing table.  My son is screaming, “Diaper, diaper,” with tears streaking his face.  The poop on his fingers made him all the more distraught; within seconds he wiped them on my bare arm.

My son was bathed…again, but without the earlier dramatics of him flooding our bathroom.  Even with a new diaper he continued to chant, “Diaper, diaper.”  When I indicated my awareness of the full one on his floor, he stopped.  Surprisingly, there was no poop anywhere on his crib or the floor.  Not sure how that was managed, but sometimes it’s better not to question heavenly gifts.

Another day of a failed napping attempt, and we sat on the sofa; Little Man selecting the new potty training book I purchased to get his head in the game.  He’s been obsessed with it for three days now.  Huge smiles as I repeated the story, and my son uttering his toddler articulation of, “Shit.”  I tried deluding myself for a few of his utterances, but realized I’d have to address the situation in such a matter that didn’t perpetuate this first ever bit of profanity usage, or nurture the path for continued repetitions of colorful words I didn’t realize he overheard me saying.  It was a successful intervention for the moment, but considering that it reinforced my suspicion that he now can and does say, “Shit,” I probably shouldn’t celebrate this particular behavior management achievement.

Once things were cleaned and settled, I took both cherubs for a drive so my son would possibly sleep for a bit.  The deprivation seems to be taking quite a toll on Mr. Man, and I was exhausted after a week of two children rising early and no break during the day.  The thirty minute snooze wasn’t enough for him, but the house was still standing by Little Man’s bedtime, so it was a good call.

We entered the house; my husband home early knowing I hadn’t trusted leaving my son scurrying around while I showered poop residue off my person.  He had a few minutes of work to complete, and the Warrior Queen expressed her desire for a bottle.  Within a minute of me gazing lovingly at her beautiful face after the feeding, she spits-up all over my torso, offering a wide smile in its aftermath.  I guess she wanted to get in on the action, and, really, once one is smeared with fecal matter, what’s another bodily secretion?



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