Nocturns

We have been having trouble sleeping at night lately. Andrew has been having nightmares. We will hear him cry out, "No, no, stop! Help, Mommy, help me!" We have to listen to that sort of thing for almost an hour. It is really disruptive to our television viewing.



Just kidding. I go in right away, alarmed that my little boy is in such distress. He is usually still asleep, but responds to my words of comfort ("you are a big boy and big boys don't cry or feel scared!"). Kidding again, Momo. Interestingly, in the morning, when he is able to carry on a conversation, he consistently--and by that I mean, every single time we ask--reports his bad dream to be about a bee coming into his room. Weird.


I told my dad, who informed me that recently he had asked Andrew what noise a bee made and was surprised to hear Andrew's rendition: a loud and very aggressive / angry buzzing. He had thought it was strange; I guess it makes more sense now, but I still wonder about the origin of the fear.

Will: It all started out so promising. You slept for like 7 hours at week two. Then your weight became an issue and I had to awake you all the time to nurse. Now you get up every 4 hours or so. This is not that big of a problem, considering my background in Andrew's Intense Sleep Disorder. At least your sleeping hours are in a crib, not attached physically to me in my bed.

But you have a very interesting quirk. You hate singing. I have tried to force my songs upon you, but it almost always has caused immediate and intense distress. I even once tried waiting until you were asleep in my arms before seranading you softly. I tried doing it while not looking at you, a sort of superstitious approach. At first I thought it had worked; you were motionless in my arms. I looked down at you, expecting to find a peaceful little slumbering face. But no; your eyes had popped wide open in what truly appeared to be shock. I have given up.


Your dad discovered an even weirder thing about your falling asleep preferences. You like to be whistled to sleep. The advantage of this is that I don't have to listen to Brigham mess up all the words to very popular LDS children's songs that we sing constantly in our home and to which Andrew knows all the words (like I Am a Child of God. Really.). I think I actually awakened your brother once in a loud attempt to correct Brigham's bizarre rendition. It makes me laugh every time I hear your dad back there whistling away. I know you will be asleep soon.

Andrew's favorite song was "As I Have Loved You." When he hears it on his little CD, he tells me that it is a Mommy song. Singing that song stopped tears almost immediately in almost all situations. Only recently has its power waned.

Do you want to know the one song you have tolerated a few times? Elvis' Can't Help Falling in Love. I think its perfect.

Morning Mishap

Monday 7:30 a.m.: Will is still asleep, thereby invoking the rule that I get to remain asleep and Brig will get Andrew situated as he prepares to leave for work. Through the haze, I understand Brig to whisper to me that Andrew is watching Sesame Street and he is leaving. The show will end in 20 minutes. Forty minutes later, I walk into the living room to find that the tv did not automatically turn off, as I had thought, when the recorded program ended. Instead, it reverted to whatever happened to be playing on the station it happened to be on. Our tv is usually set to TNT. In the morning, this means Angel, apparently.

In case you don't know, this is an awful spin-off of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. yes. Here are some of the characters:

Andrew looked a bit worried. "This is a Mommy show." He reported. "Those are bad people; they were fighting." When I asked him if it scared him, he replied, "Alilbit."

I guess I am just glad Charmed wasn't on.

This and That: April on Connecticut Ave

Cherry Blossoms like nowhere else

Between session of General Conference on that Sunday, we braved the cold weather to see the blossoms at their peak. It was beautiful. Sam decided to escape the freezing ordeal by slipping into immediate unconsciousness. Is he a fighter? That's the best we've got. Oh well. He reportedly loves Brigham now for carrying him.


The highlight of the month was that Brigham's family (with the exceptions of Momo, a devastating absence for me, and Paul and Claire) was in town last week. Sisters Katie and Abby left on Saturday, and we were so so sad to see them go. Unfortunately, my tech crew (brigham) was unable to rotate the photos I wanted to use, so I was left with the dregs that happened to be rotated the right way. Please note that all subjects are far more attractive in real life. Notables of the trip included:

The Cherry Blossom parade Katie participated in with her high school. The weather would have been perfect had it not rained. But even the rain was at least memorable.
Andrew received his very own hoop in the mail. Words failed him.







Everyone but me and Will went to a Nationals game (feel sorry for them, dear reader, not me. I will choose most things over a baseball game).

Abby, Andrew, Will and I picnicked on pizza on Connecticut Ave before a daunting journey to the Air and Space Museum. This date marks the first time Andrew ate pizza by the slice, rather than by the forkful. Will was the main event at the museum. For me and his aunts, at least. He was in a super mood. Andrew was out cold. Abby punctuated our journeying with comments about street contacting. Another big difference btwn my missionary experience and Abby's: I was relieved upon returning home that I no longer had to engage in these awkward encounters; Abby misses them.

We ate lots of pizza, did lots of walking and I got lots of help from my wonderful little sisters-in-law. (Return to me.)

We knew that Momo was ready for her family to come back when, the night before the girls were to fly out, Katie and Momo engaged in 2 (or 3?) separate phone conversations, all initiated by Momo. They went something like this:

"Hi Katie, what are you doing?"

"Eating dinner."

"Oh, I should let you go. What are you eating?"

An hour later:

"Hi Katie. What are you doing?"

"Eating dessert."

"What are you having?"

"Brownies and ice cream."

"Who made them?"

"Brigham."

"Oh. What kind of brownies?"

I realize that this exchange was funnier when told to me in person, but I thought you might get a kick out of it, anyway, Momo.

Catching Up: Andrew is Totally P.T.

Monday, March 24, 2008: Potty Training officially began.
I saw that the weather forecast was predicting nice warm weather at the end of the week and I decided to use my last known cold weather week to make me feel justified in remaining cooped up inside all day.
Without bothering to dress my son.
And feeding him cookies and chocolate under no sense of private shame.

We started Monday; I let him jump, urine-soaked, on a trampoline on Tuesday (when we babysat for my friend and I couldn't drag him off to do his business); and he did have another accident (urine only) that Sunday at church (for which I blame his father for blindly following our 2 year old's lead on whether or not he had to go rather than my instruction that he did) and then we were done. I will skip all the fun and interesting stories and simply say that Andrew is completely trustworthy in his soccer ball underwear.

In an interesting insight into Andrew's personality, on the few occassions when we had a mishap (a far too high potty with no stool during Emma's birthday party and a fiercely independent boy who refused to notify either parent of his bathroom needs), he was very hard on himself. Worse, even, than when he misses a shot at his little basketball hoop. "I missed!" he shrieked angrily. "I made a mistake! Put a diaper back on me!" He demanded this in shame. It was sad and fascinating. I was sort of proud of him for his determination and pride. I told him that we all make potty mistakes sometimes. I knew that it would evenatually come in handy that I had an accident in my 5th grade classroom. No such thing as an accident, right? ha. Luke's humiliation at an emergency room recently also helped assauge Andrew's self-loathing. He listened to these examples and seemed to feel a lot better.

Another interesting insight into Andrew's psyche was that he then felt the need to confess his failure to Emma. "I almost made it, but I missed, Emma!" Another thing my son has in common with his mom. (The first being the sweet tooth).

So, Andrew, for future reference, this is how we got you potty trained:
1. Naked from the waist down.
2. Homebound
3. Bribes: Reeses Pieces and hersey kisses (didn't spoil your appetite, but got you motivated)


4. Praise: We would cheer hysterically, dementedly (we = me)
5. Appealing to your sense of PRIDE: telling you about all the big kids who use the potty and then asking them to tell you about it and their lack of diapers.

You inform all around you of your new skill. You treated the missionaries to a full regale of your abilities and your undergarments during a dinner at Nana and Papa's house.

And every time you race for the potty, I feel a big sense of accomplishment, too.

The Universe Just Reminded Me

"All identities--awe-filled teenage girl, independent woman in her 20s, love-besotted mother--are astonishingly, mournfully brief."

The Mean Man

I gave in to my base desires and allowed teenager Andrew to nap from 3 to 5pm yesterday. He needed the sleep, and I needed the break. I knew that I would pay later, but I am sort of an instant gratification kind of person.

As a result, Andrew and Brigham got to spend some quality time together last evening. Brig took Andrew grocery shopping while Will and I eagerly awaited the ice cream from the comfort of our home.

Andrew, always prepared, brought along his "pack-pack" (photo below of said pack, taken at his birthday party last October. He wasn't ready to share that gift with the giver, Piper Cannon.)



As they were leaving the building, they passed a man entering the laundery facilities. Andrew wanted to show him his Lightning Akeen pack-pack. "Hey, guy, look! I have a pack-pack!" and so forth, with explanations of the car featured on the bag etc. The man never even glanced at Andrew.

He tried his best for probably two minutes before he walked back to his dad and declared, "That's a mean guy, Daddy. That guy is mean." He wasn't upset or anything; he said it as a declaration of fact.

I hope he means this in a different way from when I refuse to let him eat Oreos for lunch sometimes and he tells me I am a mean mommy.