Husband and I are in London for a long weekend, thanks to the confluence of a work trip and a visit from my parents, who are the babysitters. Almost straight off the plane, we caught a West End matinee of Harold Pinter’s No Man’s Land, with Michael Gambon and David Bradley (Dumbledore II and Filch to you Harry Potter fans).
I don’t think it will spoil the plot of the play for you if I reveal that Mr. Gambon’s character, uncharacteristically, survives until the final curtain. Actually, I don’t think it would spoil the plot if I reproduced the entire text on screen. It’s that kind of play. My listening comprehension wasn’t helped by the jet lag. I’m still not sure what was a plot element and what was a dream.
My mother, who is 65, took up running a few months ago and worked her way up to three miles following Doctor Mama’s advice to run as slowly as you can— even slower, if you are tired. Yesterday she ran her first road race, a Turkey Trot trail run.
Whooo-hoooo!
Nighttime in our house is very active. The boys were never great sleepers, and we may have socialized them to lie down in bed at a decent hour and suffer the light to be turned off without screaming down the house, but they pay us back by waking up and paying visits. Now that Minor is out of a crib and can roam freely, there is more middle-of-the-night bed-hopping than in a French farce. I don’t know how to make a kid stay in bed. The best thing I can come up with is that you stand outside his door and toss him back in whenever he strays. That’s fine for bedtime, but what about the middle of the night, when I’m supposed to be sleeping?
Sunday night was awful. I had injured my back, and had passed out, with the help of two Tylenol P.M. It hurt to move, to sit up, even to turn over. Aitch awoke around two and tried to climb into our bed. Husband brought him back to his room. Then Minor woke up. Events after this point are fuzzy, but Husband says he went from room to room to try to soothe each of them back to sleep, but they kept laughing and talking and bouncing around. Then I got up and yelled, and for about two hours each kid was at least confined to his room. Minor cried for an hour and then fell asleep, but Aitch called out, “Daddy….daddy….” every thirty seconds until my alarm went off at 5:00 a.m.
I was pissed.
I thought Aitch might have a greater appreciation for my interrupted sleep if he had to experience what I went through on an early weekday morning, so I went to his room, pulled off his covers, and told him he was going to have a Mommy Morning.
I took him into the bathroom and turned on all the bright lights, then frog-marched him into the shower with me. I always like to finish off my showers with a little cold water— so helpful in waking up, and makes the hair nice and shiny.
I then made him get fully dressed, from head to toe, in clothes of my choosing. No Tom Brady shirt and comfy jeans; he got a nice thick cable-knit sweater and some pants that were new six months ago and yet have never been worn.
While I dried my hair I sent him on some errands around the house to collect paper, pencils, and a lap desk.
While I got dressed, I made him do lines: “I will sleep in my bed.”
While I packed his school snack I parked him at the kitchen table and gave him a breakfast of toast and water. He looked at the water like he had never seen such a thing. “But I want JUICE,” he said, frowning. I told him that when he learns to stay in his bed all night and be quiet, then we can think about re-introducing high fructose corn syrup into his diet.
For snack, he got celery. Do small children generally like raw celery? If I weren’t so tired, I might be able to remember.
I wrote a note with strict instructions that treats, candy, dessert, TV, and computers were off-limits for both kids for the rest of the day, and then I reminded Husband that the before-school program starts at 7:00, and Aitch was completely ready to go.
The funny thing was that he really seemed to enjoy his “punishment,” especially the lines— he got a huge kick out of that. Later that night, both boys ate dinner like stevedores and then curled up to read books after dinner instead of watching TV. And both kids stayed in bed all night.
An e-mail chain was circulating among Husband’s family this week, with every brother and sister on the cc list. (The family has come rather late to technology: “Awww,” Husband said, “our first family thread!”)
“Your mother wants to get the new Bill O’Reilly book A Bold Fresh Piece of Humanity,” a brother-in-law wrote. “He is at a book signing in Ridgewood, NJ today.”
I’m not sure why we were on the thread, because we are hours away from New Jersey. Maybe they were just keeping us in the loop because she purchased her last Bill O’Reilly book in Port City.
This touched off a discussion about who should get the book. You live closer! But you work closer! But I’ll have to hang around five hours after work!
Finally one sister wrote to the other, “You voted for McCain— you get it.”
Sounds like unassailable logic to me.
ETA: Bill O’Reilly on Jon Stewart:
This weekend, I was invited to a Halloween murder mystery dinner, and I had to come in a costume that involved a formal gown. I had no idea how I was going to pull it off, but then while searching for something else down in the basement, I came across an old dress I had bought to attend a black-tie event in Chicago.
It was made of mauve chenille.
In theory, I love the idea of a chenille evening gown. It’s so Project Runway: “Let’s make a formal piece of clothing out of the most down-home textile we can imagine!” It makes me feel like a modern-day Scarlett O’Hara who happened to stumble into the bedroom, rather than the parlor, in search of dress fabric.
As with many high concepts, though, the execution falls far short of the idea. The dress is cut unflatteringly and does nothing for my figure, and the color washes me out. It’s really comfortable, but it makes me look like an unmade bed.