Not Pretty

Wow. That was majorly not pretty. We just made a big change in the bedtime routine. Ever since my son was born, he has been my responsibility to put to bed and my daughter has been my husband's responsibility. This has gone over well, because my Baby Guy is a Mommy's Boy and my Bitty Girl is a Daddy's Girl. This is the case about 99% of the time. If my husband is around, the Birdie wants him, and if I'm around, Baby Guy wants Mommy. They will settle for the "other" parent if their preference isn't available, but otherwise, this is The Way It Has To Be.

However, this creates the fairly unfair situation of my husband always having to put the "difficult" baby to bed and me having to deal with the "difficult" baby overnight. My daughter is tough to get in bed (as only a 2.5-year-old can be), but she typically sleeps all night. My son is amazingly easy to put to bed (and so precious, he will tell you "ite-ite" repeatedly as you leave the room), but he wakes at least twice overnight, sometimes for a long time (last night I was dealing with him for about two hours, although there was some dozing going on during that time).

So we decided that now that I'm not nursing the Baby Guy anymore, it's time for the situation to change. Tonight, I put the Girl to bed and Daddy put the Boy to bed. Not unexpectedly, my daughter threw a royal tantrum that started before we got off of the couch.

The first step of the bedtime routine is the Warm Milk. However, the past two nights, my daughter has requested orange juice instead. Last night, she had her orange juice, and then as Daddy started putting her to bed, asked for warm milk also. And threw a fit when he refused. She probably screamed for a good fifteen minutes, only stopping after my husband went in and calmed her down (although he did not give her the milk).

Tonight, I tried to make it abundantly clear to my daughter that if she chose the orange juice, she would not get the warm milk. She agreed to this stipulation and insisted on orange juice anyway. Fine.

So, fast forward to the point when she finished her orange juice. The moment the sippy was empty, it started. "I want some warm milk."

Me: "No, sweetie, you got orange juice instead."

Her: (starts bawling)

Me: "Honey, I told you, you could have one or the other, not both. You chose orange juice."

Her: "Iiiiii waaaaahhhhnnntttt wahhhhhrrrmm miiiiihhhhllllkkkk!" (bawling)

Me: (in the calmest voice I can muster) "Didn't I tell you you could have either warm milk or orange juice?"

Her: (silence. then, resentfully:) "Yes."

Me: "And what did you choose?"

Her: (silence)

Me: "Did you choose orange juice?"

Her: (silence, then nods once.)

Me: "Okay. Tomorrow night, then, if you want warm milk, you may have it."

Her: "I want to have it now!"

Me: "No, you may have it tomorrow."

More crying ensues. This whole time, my son has been lying peacefully on my lap beside her, having finished his bottle of rice milk. But at this point, I have turned the TV off (yes, yes, more TV). He starts saying, "Hairbrush? Hairbrush?" This is his code for, "TV? TV?" As completely random as that seems, it actually makes sense. A forthcoming post will explain it.

Me: "Okay, time to get up." I stand up with both children, put my son in his chair, and start carrying my daughter to the bathroom to brush her teeth.

Her: "I don't want you to brush my teeth!"

Him: "Waaaaaahhhhhhhh!" ("How dare you put me down!")

I stop by her bedroom, toss her blankie on the bed (to the tune of "I WANT MY BLANKIE!") and squeeze the two of us into our under construction bathroom. Before I can get the door shut, my sobbing son toddles in after us.

A side note: my son can not be allowed in the bathroom on his own (and "on his own" means even if you are in there, if you are doing anything other than watching him with hawk-like alertness). If you lose track of him for even a second, he makes a beeline for the toilet paper roll. (Spin. Oooh. Spin, spin. Wheeee! Spin spin spin-spin-spin-spin-spinspinspinspinspin until the bathroom looks like the front yard of the local high school's least-favorite teacher after a couple of teenage boys realize they have extra time and a few extra rolls of Cottonelle on their hands.)

Eek.

Back in the bathroom with two unhappy toddlers. My son looks up me, wailing, and says, "Bup! Bup!" (I have no idea where the preceeding "B" came from, but I'm sure you can tell that this means he wants me to pick him up.) So, while still holding my daughter, I lean over and pick him up. By now, I have learned the art of picking up a second child while already holding one of them. Absolutely necessary for survival, but my lower back may never forgive me, no matter how many times I try to appease it with visits to the chiropractor.

Oh well. No pain, no gain.

I deposit my son back in my daughter's room, in front of the toys (hoping to distract him, even if it means I have a mess to clean up before bed) and cross back to the bathroom as quickly as I can. He immediately catches on to the ploy, but I can move pretty fast when I need to, and I get the bathroom door shut before he can get there. His anguished cries haunt me as he staggers, heartbroken, back into the living room.

I ignore him as only a put-upon parent can, prop my knee on the toilet lid, and sit my daughter on my thigh. "NO! I don't want you to brush my teeth! I WANT MY DADDY!" I ignore her (remember, put-upon parent), grab her toothbrush and squeeze toothpaste onto it.

Her: "No, not that one!"

Me: Blink. Blink. Ohhhh. "That's your brother's toothpaste, isn't it? I'm sorry! You're right!" I wash the toothpaste off of the toothbrush and grab one from the cabinet. "Do you want this one?"

Her: "No."

Me: (getting her strawberry kids toothpaste) "How about this one?"

Her: "No. I want that one." (pointing to - you guessed it - the baby toothpaste I had already rinsed off the toothbrush, once.)

Me: Shrug. I start to put toothpaste on the toothbrush again.

Her: "No, not that one!"

Me: Eyeroll.

Her: "I want my toothbrush!"

Ah. Riiiiiiiight. Did I mention that I usually put my son to bed? So by default, I grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste. Whoops! My bad. So I get her toothbrush and his toothpaste, and the rest of the tooth-brushing goes fairly smoothly. At least something did.

Then we finish and leave the bathroom, only to hear my husband (who had just gotten home) soothing my distressed Baby Guy. This starts another round of, "I WANT MY DADDY!" We go in and say goodnight to Daddy, who is holding the Baby Guy. My daughter grabs her daddy and tries to get him to take her. He hugs her and says goodnight, and I finally pry her free. And there was weeping and gnashing of teeth.

I get her in bed ("I don't want you to put me in bed!"), sing to her, and start her music. She is wailing. I turn the light out and close the door. Screaming continues. I sit down and start to write this post. Still screaming. My husband comes upstairs after sharing some "ite-ite's" with Baby Guy. Bitty Girl still screaming. I get about a third of the way through this post. Screaming starts to die down. About halfway through this, it finally stops.

Whew. I just hope she sleeps all night.

Next obstacle: middle-of-the-night when Baby Guy wakes up and realizes Daddy is the one taking care of him. Hopefully without any more weeping and gnashing of teeth.