2.27.2012

and then there were two. but only for a little bit.

From last Thursday evening until last night, my fifteen year old sister stayed with us while my parents went out of town. The past few days have thus been a blur of sleepovers (I'm masochistic, what can I say?), dance rehearsals, school drop-offs and pick-ups, birthday parties and the general chaos of having an eight month old at the same time. It was as if -- poof! -- overnight I suddenly had two kids: one who has incredible issues with sleeping in past three in the morning and another who doesn't like going to bed until three in the morning. I have, without a doubt, seen three in the morning more these past few days than I have in years. I'm surprised I didn't wear tracks into the tile from running up and down the hallway trying to figure out why no one in their right mind wants to sleep except for me.

It was great.

Yes, I said it. It was great. It reminded me a lot of my childhood, only in this scenario, I had become my mother. That's often said by people with flecks of horror in their voice, pleas to not let them become the woman who birthed them. Really, all I want is to become my mother. If I'm becoming my mother, I'm doing something right.

...Which isn't to stay I'm not exhausted, because I am. When a fifteen year old has to lay out her make-up the night before school or stay up until it's nearly light outside refreshing a Facebook news feed, the eight month old in the room over is going to be up, too. (And it takes a lot of renditions of I Went To The Animal Fair to get them back down again, please believe.) When a fifteen year old is rolling their eyes at you from the other side of a slammed bedroom door, the eight month old is hysterically screaming in his crib wanting you to pick him up. The fifteen year old is on some kind of strange hunger strike in which she'll only eat tacos, and the eight month old needs you to puree his food in the meantime. Properly and functioning are two words that were most certainly not in my vocabulary the past few days.


We were sad to see Aunt Megan go. Ethan has been clinging to the stuffed platypus that my sister had brought for him. The house is eerie what with how quiet it is, which isn't a way I ever thought I'd use to describe our home again since Ethan's arrival. Ethan has taken to falling asleep at random: on the couch while snuggling, on the living room rug while playing with toys, on the changing table while getting him cleaned up -- and I echo his sentiments exactly. I felt like curling up in a ball and falling asleep in the car on our way to Stroller Strides this morning. (Instead, Ethan hung out and I attempted 100 squats, push-ups and bicep curls. Whatever!)

Mothers of more than one, you are all my heroes. We get to spontaneously sleep once child number two goes to their rightful home and you -- well, I don't know how you do it!

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