Go The F*#k to Sleep

I recently received a wonderful gift from a friend that truly gets me and my experience as a parent. The gift was a book entitled “Go the F*#k to Sleep” by Adam Mansbach and it is an irreverent and painfully accurate glimpse into getting your kid to go to sleep.

 The book is full of sweet little rhymes - descriptions of kittens snuggling and lambs resting – and visually arresting illustrations by Ricardo Cortes. The author resorts to all the standard efforts to coerce a child to sleep, but updates the plea with the lament, “Go the F*#k to Sleep.” I repeatedly laughed out loud as each page reveled increasing frustration and vehement requests to the listening toddler to just go to sleep – something I know quite personally.

 The Pie's nighttime ritual is pretty much the same. Dinner, a little play time, bath, teeth brushing, story time and bed. Every night she attempts a negotiation as if she is dealing with a hostage-taker. “I will play for 1 minute and then go to sleep.” When I say, “No, it's bedtime,” she tries a different approach. “Mama, how about I watch a movie and then go to sleep?” I just stick to the script and say “no” to everything, which turns bedtime into a stressful and raw experience. Mansbach must have obviously placed cameras in my house, because I am certain I have mumbled some of the pleas more than once. Verbatim.
 When I finally get out the door, after chanting the requisite bedtime words, I take a deep breath and wonder how long I have until she comes out of her room waving her sippy cup or claiming she needs to use the bathroom, or suddenly needing to share a thought she had four days ago. It's usually between 20-45 minutes. But on very special nights, if she's sick or just exhausted, when I put her to bed and hear not a peep until morning. Those are the nights that God smiles on me.

There is a line in the book that totally captures the essence of my nightly struggle:

“A hot crimson rage fills my heart, love.

 For real, shut the f*#k up and sleep!”

I get so angry at this adorable angel that I nourished in my body and gave breath to that I am tempted to punch a hole in dainty shelf near her bed. How can she do that to me? More importantly, WHY do I let her do that to me? By there time her bedtime rolls around, I am spent. Goofily, swaying from room to room, picking up toys and shoes and clothes. Gleefully giggling to myself that I might actually get some quiet personal time. Oh, what a cock-eyed optimist I can be. No, what I should do is don my armor and prepare for battle!

Let me be clear, I do not in any way recommend you read this book to your child. While it masquerades as a childrens' book, it contains adult profanities that you probably don't want your child knowing at this tender age. “Go the F*#k to Sleep” is a work of inspired genius for every parent – whether of one child or ten – and can help us all, at least for a moment, laugh at ourselves.

Now, I need a sequel for advice to get her to take a F*#king Bath!

52 Pick Up

Confession time: my daughter has WAY too much stuff. Mostly toys. And she cannot stand to leave them on the shelves, or in the toy box, or in the storage bins. For some reason, she needs to be able to glance at any given square inch of our 1200 square foot house and find one of her playthings. Me? I can't stand it! I am all about organization - a place or everything and everything in it's place.

Today I counted and kept track of the things that I picked up and put away (some items more than once) and was astounded at the multi-colored flotsam and jetsam I waded through to achieve the smallest amount of standard organization. My strong back proved victorious against the enemy, but I don't know how long it will hold out.

Strewn about my living space were:
1 monkey towel (the Pie's favorite)
2 shredded tissues (those might have actually been courtesy of the dog)
3 crayons
3 Polly Pocket Dolls
4 pairs of shoes (making 8 total)
4 stuffed animals
5 socks (don't ask about the singleton...I have no clue)
6 La La Loopsy mini-dolls (those things can really do a number on bare feet!)
9 Little Pet Shop pets
and 15 various McDonald's Happy Meal toys (as God as my witness, I will one day shove every one of them up Ronald McDonald's nose. Just have to find the freak first!!)

Alas, these 52 items do not complete the list. I also picked up stuff of my dad's:
3 dropped pills
2 towels (left on the bathroom floor)
2 pairs of shoes (4 total)
22 pieces of junk mail (that piled up since I moved in)
and 1AWOL hearing aid

So, to be clear...I am picking up what you're laying down.

The Parental Divide

Admitting I don't know everything is difficult for me, but it is the harsh reality. I have only been a parent for 4 years so I have no experience with teenage angst (other than my own, of course), or other issues that apply to children older than the age of my own little Pie. What I do know, and consider myself expert in the field of, is what I feel is best for my child and what I can live with. Honestly, sometimes those are exclusive to one another, but for the most part, they exist in harmonious glory. People who are not familiar with my child or know anything about us often attempt to instruct me on how to parent my daughter. But here's what I have to say to them:

YOU DON'T KNOW EVERYTHING EITHER!!!

My child is an individual and what works for most kids may not work for her and vice versa. I am exceedingly weary of women piping up in the check-out line at Wal Mart to tell me that my child needs a coat, or shouldn't be drinking from a sippy cup, or should be able to conjugate at least 10 verbs at her age. What makes these people think that I don't know what's best for my own child? The Pie happens to be very warm blooded and rarely gets cold, even in the deepest of winter, so wearing a coat for her is torture. When we travel away from home, she takes a sippy cup because I don't want to deal with the inevitable mess that will result from a spill. And yes, she is 4 and still talks like Cookie Monster...we are dealing with that, OK?

When I notice this situation developing, what I desire most is to punch the sanctimonious ass-hat in the throat and holler "Mind your own business, you daft cow!" But I can't risk being banned from Wal Mart. So, I nod and and make some noncommittal remark and psychically will the checker to engage warp speed so I can make my escape. Why must I defend my actions as a parent? I know the basics - stuff like not letting her play in the street, keeping her away from plastic bags, feed her - that kind of stuff, so why am I - and other moms for that matter - under such intense scrutiny?

Why must mothers be divided on the issue of parenting? After all, what we really want is to raise responsible, caring, inquisitive, loving, kind, intelligent people to launch out into the world...what difference does it make how they get there?

Tap, Tap, Tap on My Heart

I love dance...all kinds. I took dance lessons for 14 years and really enjoyed the creative and performance aspect of it. I did tap, ballet, jazz, lyrical, and pointe.  I dreamed of dancing the pas de deux from "The Nutcracker" with Mikhail Baryshnikov and taking Radio City Music Hall by storm. But truthfully, it's hard to parlay dance, particularly solo dance, into a solid financial future. I never entertained dance as a profession, mostly because of my body type, but I truly loved the art form. 

So that's why I signed up the Pie for a 6 week summer dance camp that will teach her introductory tap and ballet. I became nearly spastic at the idea of my daughter following in my dance shoes and couldn't wait to complete the enrollment form. For one hour a week, my child will learn grace and expression through dance and I am certain that even if she just stands there for the entire hour (which I highly doubt). I will be proud of her effort. 

The studio has specific requirements for dance students, so I had to purchase a black leotard, pink tights, tap shoes and non-split sole ballet shoes. They were easy enough to find and fairly affordable, so I excitedly ordered the items online and awaited their arrival. Surprisingly, one item arrived today. 

Shiny, black patent leather tap shoes, sparkling with potential. My tears only made them gleam brighter. I became unexpectedly overcome with emotion thinking about seeing my little Pie take the stage and perform her heart out. I thought about how excited I was when I was young to move from the clunky block sole tap shoes to the character shoes with heels...and someday she may be equally excited. And will share her joy. 

It was just another milestone to mark the Pie's development and maturation. I know she can't stay little forever, but it seems that with every moment that passes, she grows a little more into a big girl. It's a good thing I have a strong heart!