The pacifier kids

By on May 18, 2015 in Expert Advice, Life With Three, Sleep | 0 comments

Okay, fine, we’ve officially given up.  You win, Veronica (*throws hands up in the air*). Here you go, take the pacifiers.  Take aaaaallllll the pacifiers.  Because we need sleep and the other shit we were doing? That wasn’t working. But you know what I love about us?  What I think makes us brilliant?  We have a routine.  We have a routine that we stick to religiously.  At night, we have her take a cat nap, and then dinner, and then bath, and then feed, a book, and bed.  And on the days that the schedule is compromised for one reason or the other?  Leah: “Oh, shoot, I don’t know if we’ll be able to get her a bath tonight?” Me: Sigh. “Well, that’s not going to be good.” But, wait, you know what? IT DOESN’T MATTER.  We don’t have the right to hem and haw over a routine when it doesn’t work in the first place.  For all we know, the best routine for her, the one that will have her sleeping in until 8 am, might be to eat dinner in the bath tub followed by a bottle shoved through the spine of a book.  Or maybe she should ride through the living room on a llama while a dozen howler monkeys throw food at her, “Come on Eileen” playing softly in the background.  We don’t know.  Nobody knows, because we are sticking to the schedule that has produced zero positive results. But anyway, schedule aside, she’s not sleeping through the night on her own.  Or really, anything close.  We’d reached the point where, every night between 10:30 and 11:30, Veronica would wake up and not go back asleep until she was laying on her mom’s chest.  That wasn’t great sleep for Mom.  And then Veronica would usually make it until about 5 or maybe 5:30 when she would start tossing around on Mom’s chest, so Dad would take her downstairs.  That wasn’t great sleep for Dad.  In the end, everyone loses.  Well, everyone except Veronica.  She was pretty happy, actually. So finally, after months of this, we gave up and started throwing pacifiers at her.  We are now putting her down with a pacifier and have sprinkled a half dozen pacifiers in her crib.  Why not more?  Because the other half dozen that we’d like to put in there are hanging out with the missing left socks.  Someday they will tear this house down and a thousand pacifiers will come spilling out.  We really tried to avoid having her be a pacifier baby.  Not because we don’t like pacifiers.  Shit, we love them.  But because having a pacifier baby means that, for a long time, we’ll be getting up at least once a night (usually twice) to replace a pacifier once she’s kicked them all off the crib.  And you have to go in there and grope around in the dark, running your hands along the crib mattress feeling for plastic (why do they make the little fuckers clear?) (no pacifiers there) Fishing around in the gap between the bars and the mattress, until finally having to drop to the floor and reach under the crib.  And by that time it’s 3 am and you’re pretty much all the way awake and have to go pee. So yeah, we wanted to avoid the pacifier, but she never found her thumb and she didn’t have an interested in a lovey, so here we are. She, like her brother and sister before her, is a pacifier kid.  But you know what?  Last night she slept in until 6am. So I guess maybe the routine does work, plus a pacifier or...

The Carnival Barkers of Campbell Street

By on May 6, 2015 in Life With Three | 0 comments

They’re multiplying and they’re getting louder.  Dear god, is it possible they’re actually getting louder? You may have heard – I think it was mentioned on this blog at some point – that we added a third kid a while back.  She’s the one that sits in the middle of the living room wearing a lopsided smile while we run around like headless chickens trying to corral the elders.  The one I’ve affectionately nicknamed “wait, we have how many kids?!”  Anyway, the last time we were at the doctor for a well-baby visit, the doctor asked if Veronica* had started babbling.  We were looking to hear the ba-ba’s and da-da’s and the ma-ma’s.  Especially the da-da’s.  Always nice to hear those.  We weren’t hearing them, but no problem.  It’s not something we would have to worry about until she turns nine months, at which point if she hadn’t progressed she’d need to be enrolled in speech therapy so as to not fall off the Ivy League track**. But, as one would expect from a future senator***, it wasn’t more than a couple weeks after her doctor’s visit that she started babbling.  It was like a switch flipped.  She went from The Happy Idiot to The Babbling Idiot Who’s Also Happy (Happy Idiot for short).  And holy shit, I think she’s louder than the others. (* see, I do know her name) (** a joke, but deadly serious in New York.  And probably Lincoln Park) (*** Christ, let’s hope not) Okay, I know what you’re thinking.  It’s not possible.  There are two kids in our house that are so loud during bathtime that I have to turn on the bathroom fan to drown them out or I get a headache.  There’s a Rocky living in our house who was referred to as “our little alarm clock” by the neighbor TWO HOUSES DOWN.    But there’s no denying it.  She’s already louder.  And it probably should come as no surprise as her only example is a family that converses across the dinner table at a steady shout.  We’ve got two kids who will sit next to each other on a couch and scream conversations at each other. “ROCKY, LET’S BE BABY KITTIES” “OKAY” “WE’LL BE SLEEPING BABY KITTIES” You probably think baby kitties are quieter when they’re sleeping, right?  You’re so cute. So, I know, you’re probably looking at this and seeing just a house full of crazy.  But you know what I see?  I see the Von Traps of carnival barking.  The future is...