Night, night

Jacob as a newborn trying out sleeping.  (He soon decided he didn't like it.)

Jacob as a newborn trying out sleeping. (He soon decided he didn’t like it.)

You know how you tuck your kid into bed, say “good night” and then walk out the door?  Me either.  How did the process of getting a child into a bed become a 45-minute ritual requiring an intermission and a concession stand?  We are simply no match for our children– two stall-master-black-belts who suddenly find Mommy and Daddy RIVETING just before bedtime.  (Send.  Help.)  Here’s how it breaks down . . .

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Negotiating with my four-year-old

Collecting leaves 10-20-12

Why is it that I can negotiate with a car dealer but not with my four-year-old?

When I was pregnant with Jacob, I was still driving around in my little thirteen-year-old Geo Prizm.  I saw no reason to give it up.  But everyone was telling me that I NEEDED a bigger car.

“Do babies come with an entourage?” I asked.  “Because this little person is going to start out somewhere in the ballpark of six to nine pounds.  WHY DO I NEED A ROOMY INTERIOR AND CARGO SPACE?” When I said this to people with kids they looked at me like I really shouldn’t be entrusted with a newborn.

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Bragging Parents

Have I ever mentioned that both of my children are performing FAR above grade level?  Of course, it’s tough to pin down exactly how advanced they are because Emma is only one and Jacob is only four.  Which means they are not actually in grade school.  Or old enough for standardized testing.  (Or, as far as Emma goes, talking.)  But they are ADVANCED.  I can tell.  Jacob is a poet.  If he’s not reciting verse from some cultural touchstone (read: the “Wonder Pets”), he’s running around the playground making up his own rhymes. (MOVE OVER, KEATS.) Sure, he’s usually running around with his shoes on the wrong feet.  And running right by the friend he’s madly searching for. DETAILS.  He is an artiste.  And Emma?  Where do I start?  She is clearly a scientist in the making. Sometimes when I hand her a bottle of milk, she studies it for a moment.  Then shakes it gently up and down.  And watches the milk slosh around.  I’m almost positive she’s trying to determine its molecular structure. Or measuring the volume by sight.  (“Six ounces, Mommy?  SUH-WEEET!”)  Of course, the sloshing is usually a prelude to upending the bottle and watching the milk drain onto the floor.  SOMEONE GIVE THIS GIRL A PIPETTE. Can a Nobel Prize be far off?

Okay, maybe not.

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