"No I Amen't!"

That's what Thing 1, sick with a cold, vehemently said this morning when his sister inquired if he was going to school with her.

I'm not exactly sure how "No I'm not" somehow became "No I amen't!"

But I can respect the passion.

Still, the big feelings these little people get can overwhelm. And I don't just mean them.

I recall a David Sipress cartoon from the New Yorker in which a father and mother faced their young progeny, and the father addressed the kids thusly: "Your mother and I are feeling overwhelmed, so you'll have to bring yourselves up." (See the cartoon here.)

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Melting Moments

The morning of our eighth wedding anniversary, Late Blooming Dad and I attended our kids' preschool parent-teacher conferences.

On the whole, the conference was a love fest of the kind I don't know if we'll be getting come, say, third grade ... and especially not come seventh. The moments the teacher described when one of our kids is in distress, and the other rushes over to offer comfort, made our hearts melt.

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Out With The Old (Naps), In With The New (Earlier Bedtime) ... We Hope

I am in mourning for the naps.

Thing 1 and Thing 2 are turning four next Tuesday. A couple of weeks ago, naps on the weekend became problematic --sometimes they would, sometimes they wouldn't. Or she would, but he wouldn't. Or she would and he would, but he'd be done in half an hour.

Then came mini-camp, the program at preschool for we working moms (and dads) who don't have two full weeks off over the holidays. At mini-camp, which only runs till 2:30 p.m., no naptime is given -- as opposed to the regular preschool day, during which naptime starts at 12:30 and goes on till nearly 2:30 depending on what each kid needs. Those who don't nap are encouraged to rest or play quietly. But our kids have usually napped, and days when they didn't, they promptly fell asleep in front of "Noggin'" TV before I could manage to get dinner on the table.

Now, it seems, the naps are gone, save the stolen catnap in the car.

And I am very, very sad.

Naptime allowed ME to nap. Naptime allowed me to call friends on the east coast and play catch up; to catch up on work if need be; to, I don't know, read the newspaper or some other pursuit that felt wildly luxurious and indulgent, even though I used to do that sort of thing all the time pre-kids.

Naptime was my break, and I already miss it dearly.

Thank goodness Late Blooming Dad can be prevailed upon, one late afternoon a week (usually Sunday) to watch the kids while Late Blooming Mom still naps. Otherwise, I'd be exhausted to the point of insanity by now.

So far, we've encouraged the kids to play quietly in their room during what was previously known as naptime. It doesn't always work as intended, and there are often several "referee" breaks during which one or both adults have to intervene between quarrelsome siblings. Settling fights is no fun. But the moments of relative peace in-between are better than nothing, so we'll take it.

I guess now it's payback for the evil glare one preschooler's dad gave us a couple of months back when we confided that our kids still napped.

So far, the demise of the nap hasn't led to an officially earlier bedtime... but it HAS sometimes led to the kids passing out sooner rather than tossing and turning and/or coming out of their rooms five times in an hour AFTER we've put them down.

So as we welcome 2009 tonight, we say goodbye, with some wistfulness, to the blissful long weekend naps ... they were great while they lasted.

The Holiday Cards Lie!

They keep coming: the holiday cards featuring happy, smiling, beaming even, faces of gorgeously perfect, attractive, seemingly well-adjusted kids and their apparently joyful parents.

I don't believe them, though.

What I believe is this: Every picture perfect holiday card family is only showing us PART of the story.

The only honest card we've gotten so far was from our friends Jenine and Bruce, who enclosed not one card, but two. The first featured the kids posing in front of a snow-flocked Christmas tree, looking angelic. But the second card, enclosed with the first, was captioned, "The Real Holiday Card," and it featured pictures of both boys sporting casts over various limbs, and the girl with a face almost completely covered in what I am optimistically hoping was chocolate.

This is the true picture of family life for most moments of the year for most of us.

Though I spent the better part of the afternoon and evening stuffing envelopes with a holiday card featuring OUR gorgeously perfect, attractive, seemingly well-adjusted kids and ourselves looking apparently joyful, I am admitting right here, for the record, that ninety-nine percent of the time, it just ain't so.

Even at the photo session during which the pictures were taken, Thing 1 was having none of posing for a nice photo, and it was nearly impossible to get a snap of him actually smiling. Though normally he's overly exuberant -- his nickname of late has been "Mr. Enthusiasm" -- the morning of the photo session, he was cranky from not having slept enough (his own fault, he refused to go to sleep the previous night) and therefore almost wholly non-cooperative. Thing 2 was more amenable, but even she had precious little patience with posing: "I already said 'cheese,'" she'd protest, then then head off in search of toys or a snack.

This Sunday was far more typical than what's represented on the holiday card: Thing 2 woke up howling and turned out to have not one, but two, ear infections (one in each ear). Late Blooming Mom caught Thing 2's cold (but thankfully, not the ear infections) and slept in on Sunday, then had a nap in the afternoon, leaving Late Blooming Dad forced to cope with both kids for far too long on his own. Everybody turned cranky by Sunday night, and Thing 1 capped it all off by refusing to go to sleep until nearly 11pm.

I can't help but imagine similar scenes occurring in the homes of these very same picture perfect families depicted on the holiday cards we've received. But I guess no one's in the mood to take pictures on those days.

I bet even the Von Trapps (of SOUND OF MUSIC fame) had moments when they couldn't stand each other. It wasn't all puppet shows and Edelweis at the Von Trapp Manor.

We'll still be sending out the card on which we look happy. And the truth is, for many, many moments during a typical day, we are. But there are plenty of moments when we are not the family on that holiday card. I guess no one wants to get a card that pictures Mr. and Mrs. Von Grumpenstein, and their Twins, Whiny/Needy and Hyper/Annoying. But I just want to go on record as admitting that such a picture would be equally true, indeed.

The Great Binky Withdrawal, Part Two

We're not out of the woods yet.

Thanksgiving Night, the binkies went bye-bye. Six nights of hell followed. She had four nights of bedtime fits, putting her fingers in her mouth and weeping for the departed binky. He turned hyper and got insanely wound up before the official "get into bed" time came,then when put into bed couldn't settle, tossing and turning for an hour and a half-plus. By the time sleep came for both that first night, it was after eleven. Though "bedtime" is officially 8:30, it'd crept to nine p.m. anyway. But after eleven? This meant no "me" time for mommy or daddy, no "us" time for mommy or daddy together. No down time, no catch-up on life time, and you can just write off romance entirely.

Naptime was no picnic either -- aside from a brief catnap in the car, they didn't nap at all on the weekend, destroying our precious afternoon respites. Yet once back at school, where they'd napped sans binkies for months, they slept. What do the teachers know that we don't?

When Day Seven dawned, it was time to appeal to a higher authority for help.

That authority, whom I'll call Dr. V. to preserve her anonymity, is a licensed family therapist who also happens to be a mother of twins. This makes Dr. V. a heady combo, a perfect mix of empathy for other parents of multiples, and PhD smarts. Her first reaction to our situation was a big sigh, and then: "It's tough. It's four nights of hell."

We told her it had already been six.

Dr. V. told us to be empathetic. We should tell our kids how hard it had been for us to give up binkies when we were kids. She pointed out we hadn't restricted the binky use as much as we should have before we took them away; sure, we didn't let them take the binkies out of the house, but hadn't consistently restricted them to the bed. But without judgment, she said there was nothing to be done about that now. Looking ahead, she had ideas, potential solutions, approaches: sticker charts for the bedtime routine, rewards given in the morning for staying in bed, the removal of privileges for not complying. She suggested leaving sippy cups in their room as a sucking substitute. She advocated getting them a replacement comfort object -- which we'd tried with limited success -- and the idea that the kids can "choose or lose," a concept of the kids taking responsibility for their problem instead of making it all ours. We were to tell them they had a choice, stay in bed or lose a privilege (naming it), and to be as emotionless about explaining it as a waitress explaining menu choices. Whenever the kids got out of bed, we were to avoid reacting at all, save to wordlessly escort them back -- twenty times, if necessary. She said to keep our emotions out of it so there'd be no payoff, in the form of parental attention. She told us to make a "doctor" the heavy: "The doctor says the new rule in this house is that you have to stay in bed." And she told us to find lots of occasions to praise them for good behavior throughout the day, as long as we specifically mentioned the thing they were doing that was good. ("Good job" would be too generic, but "you are sharing really well together" would work.)

We ended the conversation feeling armed and ready, and mutually agreed to hit the "reset" button on our emotions. We'd both turned into angry, grumpy, bear-like creatures, suffering from lack of sleep (Thing 1 had been up and in our room in the middle of the night every night, and our cat, not to be outmatched in the quest for attention, decided to throw up or poop outside the litter box for several nights as well). But we realized now, tired as we were, that our expectations had been out of line: binky withdrawal was no easy thing, and would not be conquered in a few nights.

That evening, the sticker chart, which had been retired awhile back, made its return engagement, with new explanations and rules. They still got stickers as the immediate reward for taking a bath, using the potty, getting in PJs, brushing teeth. But once they'd earned three stickers in the STAY IN BED column -- proudly put in the chart each morning after doing so -- they'd get a reward. (We picked making gingerbread cookies on the weekend as the first reward). They got to each go to bed with something they wanted: for him, a toy airplane, for her, a pink stuffed dog AND her sleeping bag on the bed.

Though one of us stayed in the room for a while, listening to Thing 2 talk herself to sleep (a new comfort mechanism) and Thing 1 do endless take-offs and landings, eventually, by ten, both were out.

The next couple of nights had some setbacks, but no tantrums, no hyper giggle fits, and when there were nocturnal wanderings, the kids went back down after being quickly escorted back to bed.

Weekend naps are still proving problematic, but at least they took one today after being separated into two different rooms.

It's far from perfect. The war isn't won yet. But we know, and they do, that there will be no retreat. The binkies are gone.

Bleary-eyed, we continue ...

The Great Binky Withdrawal

The dentist said they could go till age four, but that birthday is fast approaching.

So Late Blooming Mom figured Thanksgiving was as good a time as any to enact The Great Binky Withdrawal.

Forces were marshalled in advance, most notably the book THE BINKY BA BA FAIRY. It was dutifully read aloud -- and re-read aloud -- many times before the appointed day when the Binky Box was decorated and filled with every last Binky in the house.

The book said the Binky Ba Ba Fairy would come in the night, after the children went to sleep. The Fairy would take their binkies in the box, placed outside their bedroom door, and give them to new babies, babies who needed the binkies. She would replace the binkies with Big Kid Presents.

Thing 1 and Thing 2 bought into the Binky Ba Ba Fairy with a vengeance. They've never been told much about Santa Claus, and they haven't lost any teeth yet, so the Tooth Fairy hasn't made a visit. But they bought the Binky Ba Ba Fairy with the unquestioning wonder and faith in magic that only very small children can muster. They insisted on bringing the decorated binky box all the way to our front door and placing it outside.

That night, they tossed and turned, full of questions. When will she come? Why don't we see her? What color are her wings? Why isn't she here yet? How will she get inside? Which babies will get the binkies? What are the names of the babies?

Thing 1 missed her binky badly, and even rejected the comfort of the little duckies she normally sleeps with; to her, they suddenly seemed to belong to the baby she used to be, not the big kid she was about to become.

Thing 2 normally tosses and turns before getting down to sleep, but that night, his restlessness seemed endless.

Late Blooming Mom wound up in their room past 11 p.m, reading by flashlight.

Then it was time to prepare the Big Kid Presents, and remove the binky box from the front door and place it in an "undisclosed location" where the kids won't find it.

The next morning, it must've been six-thirty when I heard the exclamations. Thing 1 had found the presents. He awakened Thing 2 excitedly. Daddy was soon drafted to help them open the gifts: a Lite Brite for her, a Lego Mac truck and Lightning McQueen from the movie CARS. The morning was spent happily playing with the toys, with not a thought given to the binkies.

All was well.

Until later in the day, when nap time arrived ... and there were no binkies.
Cue ominous music here. To be continued ...

Psycho Kiddies, qu' es-ce que c'est?

Nobody tells you when you have a child that children are psycho.

I don't mean all the time.

But I do mean when they're hungry, tired, or anywhere in the vicinity of bedtime.

Last night, Thing 2 went into her nightly nuts routine. It happened pretty much on cue, right around the time it was politely suggested to her that it was time to get into pajamas. This was the signal she was waiting for. Suddenly she was on the floor, kicking and flailing, making contradictory and nonsensical demands ("Button my buttons" on the dress she was already wearing and needing to take off, "I wanna do it myself," "I want mommy to do it," "I want daddy," etc.). Any attempt by mommy or daddy to touch her or comply with one of her requests was met with a "Noooooo!" and more thrashing about. Forcible attempts to remove clothing didn't work; gently coaxed efforts finally succeeded in getting her naked. But then there was the issue of taking off the underwear and putting on the pull-ups, which mommy and daddy still require Thing 2 (and Thing 1 for that matter) to wear at night, to avoid a wet bed. Said pull-ups are "too squishy" and were unacceptable unless flat from the package. When a pull-up deemed worthy was located and donned, the next power struggle began, over the mandatory tooth-brushing. At this point, mommy and daddy pretty much gave up.

Oddly enough, the storm passed of its own accord a mere moment or two later. Perhaps the tipping point occurred when Thing 2 noticed the calm, ready-for-bed Thing 1 contentedly doing a puzzle with mommy. Perhaps it was simply that the fit had run its course. But no sooner than Thing 2 began to horn in on the puzzle activity than Thing 1 went from content to crazy in mere seconds. The tantrum's trigger? Natch, it was Thing 2's desire to share in the puzzle fun. Thing 1 wanted the puzzle to his own little self.

There was more sturm and drang, but finally mommy was able to mediate a sharing solution that seemed to pacify all parties. The kids then played as sweetly and politely as a couple of proper English children at a white glove tea party.

Wha?

Even after 3-plus years into this parenting thing, I do not understand how children can be adorable, kind, gentle, huggy, kissable, squeezable munchkins saying "I wuv you" in that soft, quiet, tender way that makes you melt ... and seconds later, turn into Israeli commandos who'll stop at nothing to defend the Holy Land, even if that Holy Land is a Mickey Mouse Clubhouse 24-piece puzzle of a pastoral picnic scene featuring Mickey, Donald, Minnie, Goofy and Pluto.

What goes on in those developing brains, anyway?

I once saw an interview with the creators of SOUTH PARK, Trey Parker and Matt Stone, in which they explained that, contrary to the prevailing opinion that kids are born innocent and sweet, they're actually born selfish and mean. I don't subscribe to that view, but there are moments when I can see a little of Eric Cartman in each of my kids ... and while I enjoy the antics of Eric Cartman, I prefer them on screen. Parenting Eric Cartman would be hell.

I'm continually amazed at how suddenly the psycho behavior takes hold; how intense it is; and how it can end just as suddenly as it began. Sure I try to avoid the obvious triggers -- the aforementioned "too hungry" and "too tired" symptoms that are often the precursors of a full-on psycho episode. But let's face it, you can't avoid bedtime. Sometime soon, Thing 2 is gonna have to learn to get ready for bed without the pj request prompting an attack of the crazies.

I find myself repeating my new mantra: Ignore and Endure. That is, when I'm not succumbing to the temptation to scream at the kids, and have the self-control to temporarily leave the room. (One mom friend manages by breathing into a paper bag.)

I know I must've had my psycho moments, and now I imagine that somewhere, my late mom is probably keeping score, tabulating my own kids' fits and cheering them on, knowing they've still got far to go to equal what I put her through.

Payback's a bitch, mom. But really: was I this bad?

When They Just Make You Crazy

My teeth hurt.

It's not because I need dental work.

It's because I have two three-year-olds who won't go to bed.

It matters not to them that they are overtired, exhausted, and one of them is sick. They just want to prolong their time awake, at whatever the cost to Late Blooming Mom's (and Dad's) sanity.

Or so it seems.

It's not fear of the dark that's keeping them up (they have a night light). It's not fear of abandonment. They know damn well we are in the next room if they need us. It's all about control -- them, over us.

It's at the point where one or the other parent has to stay in the room, laying between the cribs to make sure they keep quiet and stay in bed.

This only exasperates me or my husband, and leads to us having precious little time for each other, or to ourselves, after bedtime.

We've pulled out the threats -- no TV the next day, none at all -- and we've made good on the threats twice already. They're good for a night, then fall right back into their bad habits the next night.

No wonder my teeth hurt.

As I wrote in this space once before, as I child, I fought bedtime so hard that my own mom put me out in the hallway of our New York City apartment building with my blanket and my stuffed rabbit. I've been determined to avoid inflicting such trauma on my own kids; I know it was traumatic because forty-plus years later, I can still remember it.

But I can sure as hell see where she was coming from.

We have a bedtime routine. We limit the number of books we read. We cuddle to the same three songs on the same CD after books. Then we walk them to their beds, and put on the CD they associate with sleeping that they've heard practically since birth.

Some nights it works.

Some nights, they make me insane. Tonight is one of those nights.

So to all those other parents out there who may, this very night, be gritting their hurting teeth and wanting to slam doors and scream and tear out their last non-gray hairs, I say, I hear you, brothers and sisters.

Wanna meet for a drink?

The Rails Are Off, Continued ...

So it's been about 3 weeks since we took a side off Thing 1's crib. His nocturnal wanderings haven't entirely gone away: we can count on him appearing in our bedroom every third or fourth night, sometime in the middle of the night, saying he's lost his binky. One time he said so even though it was still in his mouth.

But he IS going down at bedtime and staying in bed to fall asleep, and that's major progress. There is much rejoicing chez Late Blooming Mom.

On the other hand, the anything-goes spirit of New Year's Eve that marked the first couple of weeks of no side rail at bedtime has been replaced by early morning hijinks. This morning, Thing 1 got into Thing 2's crib (Thing 2's side rail has been off since Thanksgiving), and began to bounce. Whereupon Thing 2 switched to Thing 1's crib, and SHE began to bounce. I walked in on them and saw the "we know we're not supposed to do this but we're really having fun" look on their faces. But it was barely seven a.m., and official wake-up time in Late Blooming Mom's house is not until seven-thirty, a far more civilized time.

I knew the minute I left the room the crib-swapping hijinks would continue unabated, so I firmly announced I would be laying down on the futon we've got on the floor between the cribs (we put it there to guard against any middle-of-the-night falls from bed) to keep them contained until official wake-up time. Theoretically this would ensure they'd both stay in their cribs, resting if not exactly sleeping, until I was ready to face the day with them.

Of course this isn't what happened. Two minutes after I lay down, Thing 2 gave me a plaintive, "mommy, could I cuddle with you?" This was soon followed by the same request from Thing 1. So three minutes into my attempt to get a little more shut-eye while keeping them contained, I was crowded onto the futon with both of them.

Four minutes in, I was perched precariously over the edge of the futon, practically on the floor, while snuggling with both kids. They began to play with my hands, the blanket, the pillows, each other. They managed to stay relatively horizontal for another ten minutes or so, and then it was time to bounce again.

My tired self is wondering just how long the morning hijinks are going to go on, and hoping they'll go the way of the bedtime shenanagins.

I should probably go to bed the same time the kids do, just to catch up on sleep. But of course, it's the only time of the day I have to myself -- or to spend with my husband -- so I wind up staying up too late. By the time I crawl between the sheets I find myself thinking, "great, they've been asleep for two hours; they have a two-hour sleeping head-start on me. I'll never catch up." I don't remember my own parents ever being this tired. Of course, they weren't late bloomers at parenting. Maybe they had the right idea, doing it so young.

But I've got no choice at this point. I just hope the Gods of Sleep -- and my kids -- take pity on me.

The Rails Are Off ... And Bedtime Is New Year's Eve

Way back around Thanksgiving, Thing 2 figured out how to climb out of her crib, though she managed to scrape herself while doing so. She proceeded to climb out several times a night, and so we figured it was time to take a rail off one side of her crib. And since Monkey See, Monkey Do seems to be the rule with twins, we figured we'd best do the same for Thing 1, even though he'd shown no signs of wanting to imitate her feat.

That very first night, it might as well have been New Year's Eve in the kids' room. They were up playing with toys every time we re-entered the room (having been alerted by the giggling) . We kept marching them back into bed and leaving.

Finally they slept ... but at three a.m., Thing 1 appeared at our bedside, proclaiming, "I'm all done sleeping. I want breakfast."

One of us -- I can't remember who, I'm too bleary-eyed at the memory of that night -- got up and marched Thing 1 back to bed.

The New Year's Eve thing seemed to die down after a couple of nights, but Thing 1's middle-of-the-night appearances at our bedside continued ... to the point when we decided enough was enough. Thing 2 was staying in her bed all night, having adjusted to the freedom of losing that rail. But Thing 1 was clearly not ready to be let loose from the crib.

Thing 1's rail went back up.

Thing 2 maintained her freedom.

In the ensuing weeks and months, Thing 2 routinely appeared at our bedside in the morning -- though thankfully never before six a.m., and frequently not until seven -- to inform us that Thing 1 was awake, needed a diaper change, and wanted his morning milk. She became her brother's keeper, and was quite insistent that his needs be met, since he could not get out of his crib himself to tell us what they were.

Then a week or two ago, Thing 1 began to climb out of his crib, and landed with a thud. Fearful of an injury, especially since Thing 1 has a tendency toward obliviousness to all danger -- we realized it was time for his rail to come down again.

Saturday night, Dad took off the rail, after we'd prepped Thing 1, explaining he was now ready for a Big Boy Bed, but the rule was, he had to stay in it after we put him in it at bedtime.

Saturday night was New Year's Eve all over again.

Thing 2 joined in the shenanigans, even though she's been staying in her bed for months. After repeated visits back to their room, to march them to bed, Late Blooming Mom wound up sitting in their room, back against the door, keeping a vigilant watch until they both fell asleep.

The second night -- a school night, which made getting to bed on time more important -- New Year's Eve returned. Toys were overturned, closets accessed, drawers rummaged through. Every book on the book shelf seemed to have landed in Thing 1's crib. And when I walked in on the two co-conspirators, one kid was standing up legs apart, the other was crawling underneath said legs, and both were in the midst of uncontrollable giggles. They gave me looks that said, "We know we're busted -- but it was sooooo worth it." I marched them to bed and did my mom cop act, sitting against the door till I heard snoring from each crib.

Realizing I couldn't keep this up, the next night, I wound up making repeat visits again, but it was only to guide Thing 1 back to bed. His sister, who'd failed to nap at school, had fallen into a deep sleep the moment her head hit the pillow. This mystified Thing 1, who kept complaining in a loud voice that his sister wasn't talking to him. I told him she was asleep and he'd better get to sleep too. The third time I came in to check on him, he was practically asleep, but sprawled face down on our folding futon beneath the crib, toys and books strewn everywhere about him.

The next night, we had a sitter.

The kids behaved like perfect angels and though the sitter had to pop back in once, briefly, that was the extent of the bedtime battle.

But then, the next night, New Year's Eve was back. Cop enforcement was necessary. Worse, Thing 1 showed up in our room at three a.m. requesting we help find his apparently lost binky.

Tonight, it's daddy who's doing the cop bit at the door.

Every morning that Thing 1 awakens without having gotten enough sleep, he's a whining, complaining, annoying pain, kvetching about everything. We explain to him that he's like this because he hasn't gotten enough sleep, and the reason for that is not staying in bed at bedtime, when we tell him to do so. But he's too cranky for the truth to penetrate his sleep-deprived mind. Several times, we've carried him kicking and screaming down to the car so he can go to preschool.

Tonight daddy threatened Thing 1 with putting the rail back up. But I don't want him to follow through on the threat because, as bad as the mornings are, as icky as playing cop can be, and as much as I long for the path of least resistance, I know Thing 1 has gotta work through this. He must learn that bedtime means bedtime, and he's got to get to the point where no parental cop need be present to enforce the rules. A real Big Boy bed isn't too far in his future. And we're planning some out of town trips this summer, which can only be accomplished if he can stay in a bed all night, since he's gotten too big for a port-a-crib.

We're gritting our teeth and carrying on as best we can, sleep-deprived and grumpy.
But I think I understand the meaning of the expression "off the rails" in a way I never have before. He's gone off the rails, and we can only keep firmly putting him back in bed until he figures out that Big Boys Stay In Bed, so that, god willing, their parents can too.

I Need A Holiday From The Holiday Weekend

Maybe it's a truism that holiday weekends are not holidays when you have kids ... but it nevertheless bears repeating over this holiday weekend.

In my pre-late blooming mom period, when I was single or dating or married sans kids, I couldn't wait for 3-day weekends. They felt so rich and luxurious. I could sleep in. I could fool around with my husband AND sleep in. I could go for a long bike ride on the beach, amble over to a farmer's market, cook a really spectacular meal, and still have time to see a movie or catch up on whatever Tivo had Tivo'd for us.

I'd end those weekends fully rested and blissed out.

Now I'm an adrenaline-addled stress puppy after just two days of minding the kids. Ferrying them from museums to birthday parties to pizza restaurants, coaxing them into the car and out of it, into the bathroom and out of it, I'm a teeth-gritting, one temper tantrum away from losing it, wreck.

And let's not even get into how long bedtime seems to take on these holiday weekends.

I know, I know, I wanted kids. Desperately, terribly, deep down in my heart and in my bones.

I just never thought a 3-day weekend would mean not having a second to myself. (Okay that's not entirely true. I'm sitting here blogging. But I didn't get to it until 9:40 p.m.).

Here it is, Sunday night of President's Day weekend, and I'm bracing for what's to come tomorrow. My husband actually has to work tomorrow, so it's me and the kids (and the in-laws, here for a visit ...who are helpful, but with twin toddlers -- a high maintenance combo if there ever was such a thing -- there's only so much you can impose on Grandma and Grandpa to do). Daddy has a full work day ahead of him ... and I can't help but envy him at least a little. Because it's got to be more relaxing than this ...

Here's to the resumption of the work week on Tuesday. Now that's something I never thought I'd say.

In Praise Of The Nap: The Late Blooming Mom's Secret Weapon

In the last few weeks of my pregnancy, when I was more or less on bed rest, having ballooned to a size someone 5'2" should never be unless pregnant with twins, people told me to get all the sleep I could. As if I could bank sleep.

They also told me that when the babies came, I'd better learn to sleep when they slept.

I did.

What I didn't expect was to still be doing it three years later. But one of the facts of life when you're a late blooming mom is that you don't have the energy younger moms do. The only way to recharge your internal battery when you've been chasing around a toddler who acts more like the Energizer Bunny -- or in my case, two Energizer Bunnies -- is to get plenty of naps.

Thing 1 and Thing 2 nap for two hours a day, on average. Sometimes even a little more -- mostly because, on the weekend, their nap is the only break their dad and I get until bedtime, and we often hesitate to wake them because it means our rest is over too.

Confession: I napped even before I was a mom. Not so often as I do now, but more than once in a while. I always woke up refreshed mentally as well as physically. A friend of mine refers to his naps as "horizontal thinking." I agree.

And there's something downright civilized, in a European, better-quality-of-life kinda way, about a mid-day Siesta. The sun is still high in the sky, its light streaming across the bed in friendly warm stripes coming through the partly open shutters. The cat is already curled up in the corner of the bed, his very presence an invitation to do the same.

I always considered naps a thoroughly justifiable luxury to indulge in once in a while, a way to perk up on the job instead of a coffee break, or make a weekend feel more relaxing.

But now that I'm a mid-life mom, naps have gone from a nice break when I could squeeze them in to an absolute necessity. I'd be exhausted all the time, instead of most of it, without them.

Perhaps this is why I live in fear of the day my kids decide to give up the nap. I've heard tell of this phenomenon, and other parents have tried to reassure me it's not all bad: they claim their kids go to bed earlier at night once they drop the nap. Somehow I suspect mine will not evolve that way.

Sometime after giving birth, I had to go see a physical therapist to learn some exercises that would help re-strengthen some muscles that had split during the pregnancy, and only recently fused back together. The doctor, a mother of grown twins, told me that for the first four years of her sons' lives, she never exercised. "Your exercise now," she said, "is sleep."

So to all you other late blooming moms out there, you have a doctor's permission. Go, take a nap.

The Payback Kid

Whenever I gave my own mom an especially hard time, she used to say to me, "You should have three just like you."

Though sometimes it feels like I do -- with demanding twin three-year-olds and a neurotically needy, if adorable, cat -- the reality is that only one of them lives up to the moniker, "The Payback Kid."

One of them at a time, that is.

Within two weeks of being born, my daughter clearly held the title. That's because she came down with a mysterious virus, developed a high fever, and had to be hospitalized for ten days, undergoing two spinal taps, giving us all a terrific scare that she had meningitis (she didn't, and I'm still awaiting an apology from anyone responsible for the mix-up at the hospital's lab). I was forced to shuttle back and forth between Thing 2 at the hospital's neo-natal intensive care unit (AKA the NICU) and home, where Thing 1, like his sister, was in need of feeding and cuddling.

But a funny thing happened during Thing 2's hospital stay. Thing 1, who seemed to begin life as my mellow, Zen baby, turned into a needy Thing indeed, refusing to calm down without near constant holding, swaddling, and swinging. Thing 2 returned home healthy but more independent, content to snuggle into her swaddle blanket and settle down without much fuss. Thing 1 continued his demanding ways for months on end. It looked as if Thing 1 was going to lay claim to the title after all.

Smash cut to about two and a half years later: Thing 2 learns to say no, refuse to go to bed, stamp her feet in vehement protests. Thing 1 picks up a few of these tricks from her. They both throw tantrums when they don't get what they want, whether it's ice cream, another ten minutes of Baby Einstein, or the ability to wander off into a busy street unattended. But while Thing 1 can be easily distracted, or at least we can wait him out (he recovers from blowing his top quickly), Thing 2's temper proves longer lasting. Her fits are tougher to squelch, her desire for limit-testing seemingly insatiable. The title has been swapped again.

Six months later, Thing 2 seems determined to retain her crown.

Bedtime is her battleground. But then, I recall, it was mine too. One of my most vivid childhood memories is being put out into the hallway of our New York City apartment -- not an internal hallway, I mean the one where people got on and off the elevators -- with my pink blanket and furry bunny. Apparently, mom had had enough of my refusal to go to sleep. I'd been banished.

Today you might call child welfare if you saw an unattended kid curled up with a blanket and a bunny in the hallway of a New York apartment building, but in those days, when we knew all our neighbors and nobody got by the doorman without being buzzed in, I was safe.

I was also undoubtedly a pain in the neck.

Sadly, my mom isn't around to see me struggle with getting Thing 2 to bed. One of the hazards of being a late blooming mom is that all the grandparents don't necessarily come with the package(s) that took so long to arrive. Mom never got to see Thing 1 and Thing 2.

Despite the temptation to do what mom did to me, I've never put Thing 2 outside the condo with her striped blanket and cherished toy ducks. That's one childhood memory I don't want her to have. But I've lost my temper, I've yelled, I've stormed out of her room -- I've basically lost it in front of her. I've run the gamut of stuff a good mom is not supposed to do in this situation, and vowed to do better.

Whenever I've had enough sleep to get some perspective on it, I laugh.

That's because somewhere, I know my mom is laughing ... at me and my payback kid.

"I Want To Sleep With Daddy!"

Back in freshman psychology class at Brown, I vaguely remember reading about the Elektra complex (in which, according to Carl Jung, the daughter is temporarily in love with the father), and how it peaks sometime in early childhood.

At Late Blooming Mom's house, we appear to have entered the height of my daughter's Elektra phase -- and while not a Greek tragedy by any stretch, it brings with it no shortage of pain.

When deprived of Daddy's presence, even momentarily -- say, when the poor guy has to go use the can and would like a mere moment or two of privacy -- Thing 2 explodes. You moms and dads no doubt have seen the like of it: a feet flailing, throat wailing, wake the neighbors tantrum. Sadly, nothing Late Blooming Mom does or says can stop it. Nothing can end it save Daddy's eventual, though reluctant, return.

Tempers are flaring. Nerves are short. Words are uttered by my just-turned-three-year-old girl that hurt, and hurt deeply. She didn't learn to say "Go away, mommy" and "I don't like you" from us: we don't talk like that around here, though for sure there are moments when we give in to our worst instincts and say stuff we regret. But it's no consolation that she may have picked up these hurtful phrases at school. They still hurt.

You'd think being a Late Blooming Mom, I'd have some emotional maturity and experience to bring to the table in a situation like this, so it might not bother me the way it would other moms. I'd be more resilient. I'd be able to see it as the healthy, though not pleasant to endure, sign of a normal developmental stage. I'd take it in stride, not let it keep me up nights.

No such luck. Being rejected by your toddler sucks, no matter your "maturity" when it happens.

But damage to Late Blooming Mom's psyche aside, it's Daddy who is the parent suffering the most. Our pint-sized Elektra won't let him alone. Bedtime -- when separation from Daddy is imminent -- is her biggest trauma of the day, and thus, ours.

During one of her bedtime tantrums some weeks ago, we let Thing 2 come into our bed -- not something we do often, as we decided long ago the "family bed" concept wouldn't do our marriage any favors . That particular night, though, we were tired, we were desperate. We ignored the advice of every credible parenting book, website, and blog. We caved.

But we quickly realized our mistake. The very next night, when we'd rested a bit and were better able to maintain our parental resolve, we refused our daughter's request for a repeat. Fortified by the memory of her previous success, yet now denied the same privilege, she wailed those telling words: "I want to sleep with Daddy!"

I tried to re-assure Daddy, who was immediately beset by visions of nightly bed incursions, "It just shows how much she loves you." To which he replied, in a tone devoid of humor: "She has a funny way of showing it."

Recognizing that our daughter may be facing genuine anxiety at this nightly separation -- even though she shares a room with her twin brother, so she's never alone in there -- we have recently decided on a compromise. In an effort to meet her very real need, but keep our own bed our territory (barring the occasional need to console a child after a nightmare), Daddy will lie down in her room next to the crib each night, until she falls asleep.

Maybe it's a Hail Mary pass. But we're not above the occasional Hail Mary (even though we're Jewish ... but then, come to think of it, so was Mary).

We're about a week into the new strategy. Some nights it works, but it's not perfect, as was demonstrated tonight when Daddy had to leave She-Who-Will-Not-Be-Appeased to go to the john, and promises of his quick return were not sufficient to avert a melt down.

That was about an hour ago. Tonight's fit is slowly fading into memory. Thing 2 is now peacefully asleep.

Daddy is out having a beer.

Late Blooming Mom is feeling like a third wheel. But I suspect I'll be the one in need of alcohol soon. If only I could remember from freshman psychology: just how long will it be before my son's Oedipal Complex is due?