My CVS adventure

I recently started shopping at CVS. When I say "shopping," I mean taking advantage of their sales to get things for practically nothing. It's exhilarating, better than the Herbal Essences that I got for less than a buck last week. Granted, I wouldn't stand in the middle of CVS moaning and yelling out, "Oh, yes. Yes! YES!", but it's still a good feeling.

I had some coupons that I really wanted to use the other day, so I ran to the store closest to my house. It was raining, but I really wanted to use these coupons, so I left the kids in the car and ran inside. Before you panic and call CPS, I left all three kids in the car. I'm not in a habit of leaving my two and three year old alone in the parking lot, although there are days I'd like to put them in a box with a "Free to good home" sign. The store was out of the shampoo I wanted to buy, so I came out and got back in the car.

I pondered going to a different CVS. It was pouring rain, nearly dinner time, and the kids had been in the car about 5 minutes too long. I looked at the clock, looked at my gas gauge, looked at the kids and decided to head the two miles to the other store. On the short drive from one store to the other, I passed five gas stations. This information will be important later in the story.

I got my shampoo, and I got it for free. The cashier didn't want to let me use my coupons, so I spent a little extra time in the store waiting for her to get approval. When I finally came back out to the car, I saw Bryan sitting in the driver's seat reading the car manual. Uh-oh.

"Mom, we have a problem."

Remember when I said I passed those five gas stations? This is where that piece of information is important. Go ahead and laugh. You wouldn't have stopped for gas in that kind of downpour, either. Okay, okay, so I know I stopped for shampoo, but I had to prioritize. Free shampoo in the rain is definitely better than $4 a gallon gas in the rain. Well, until you run out of gas.

My husband was not due home yet, so I called his cell phone. I called it about ten times, hoping he'd hear it and answer, so he could bring me some gas. I forgot that he was riding his motorcycle, in the rain, and probably wouldn't be up to chatting on the phone. When I realized that my cell phone battery would probably die like the car had, I decided to call one more time and leave a message, telling him where I was and begging for help. He answered.

"HELLO?" He was screaming because he was at a stoplight, wearing his helmet, in the rain. Oops.

"Hey, can you stop at CVS on your way home? I need help."

"WHAT? CVS?"

"Yes, CVS." I told him which CVS. I gave him directions, including landmarks.

"OKAY. CVS. GOT IT." (Still yelling.)

I had a gas can in the back of my van. There was a gas station about a half a mile up the road, and I suppose I could have hiked it over there and gotten myself some gas, but it was raining. I melt, so that was out. I thought, "No problem, we'll just wait for my honey to come to the rescue."

Foolishness is not an admirable trait. I was now trapped inside a non-moving vehicle with a 14 year old, a three year old, and a two year old. It was now past dinner time, and it was hotter than Hades inside that car. The windows were foggy and we were all starting to sweat. I cracked the windows a little.

"I'm getting weeetttttttttt." Boo. Hoo. I rolled up the windows.

"I'm hooottttttt." No problem. I cracked the windows again.

"I'm getting wetttt againnnnnn." It's a vicious cycle. The only way to stop it is with distraction.

I tried to sing songs with them. We played Let's Watch For Daddy. I briefly considered taking them inside the CVS, but decided that if I did, we would never be welcome back at that store. I had already made the cashier mad by giving her coupons, there was no good reason to torture her with children as well.

"I'm hungry." This came from my older child, who obviously lacks the common sense to refrain from suggesting hunger in front of his younger sisters. That started a chorus of whining. I gave Bryan three bucks and sent him in the store to find something for the kids to snack on. He came back with a giant bag of chocolate chip cookies and two of my dollars. Good job, kid. Good job.

I doled out a couple of small cookies per child and sweetly suggested they stuff them (in their mouths). They wanted more. I tried explaining that after Daddy brought gas, we were going home to have dinner. They still wanted more.

"Look, there he is!" My knight in shining armor, flying down the road on his motorcycle. Approaching the parking lot. Going past the parking lot. Driving out of sight. Crap.

Molly was poking Abby in the face with her shoe, Abby was trying to bite her in return, Bryan was yelling at them both... and I was rethinking walking in the rain to the gas station. Maybe on the way I'd get picked up by a trucker with a chainsaw or something.

"We want more cookies!"

"Fine. Eat them all." They took me at my word. Super! Three kids on a sugar high in a confined space with no air conditioning! It's every mother's dream.

Three minutes later, my husband called. "Honey, where are you?"

"I'm still at CVS, still sitting in the van, still waiting for gas. Where are you?"

"I'm at CVS, too. I don't see you."

"Yes, sweetie, I know. I saw you drive right by us. You're at the wrong CVS."

"Oh. Ummmm... am I in trouble?"


I must be a bad, bad wife. My poor husband was drenched to the bone, driving around trying to find me because I was dumb enough to pass FIVE gas stations without stopping for gas, and he's worried about being in trouble? Hell, I was worried he'd give me a lecture about not letting the tank go lower than an eighth before filling up. He turned around and came back, and rescued us with a can of liquid gold (aka gasoline). My hero.

The next day, the kids wanted to go to CVS again. I decided to pass on the shopping expedition. It was hours from a mealtime, sunny outside, and my van had gas in it. I mean, where's the challenge in that?

Stinkin' Beauty

Abigail thinks she's a princess. When I say that, I mean it literally. She tells everyone she meets that she's a princess, and she says it with this serious face that makes me laugh every time. Her brow scrunches up, she lowers her head a little bit, then she looks up at you from under flattened eyelids and says, in this deep, serious voice, "I'm a PWINCESS."

It makes me laugh just imagining her saying it. She has no idea how cute she is.

I have a fancy princess dress that a friend gave me when her daughter outgrew it. Molly wore it when she was smaller, back when Abby didn't really care. Molly outgrew it a while back, and I put it away so they didn't make a mop (or something equally destructive) out of it. I came across it in the closet yesterday, and gave it to Abigail.

She was stunned speechless when I put the dress in her chubby little hands. She held it up to her face, closed her eyes, then giggled. I put it on her, hoping it would still fit. It did. Fluffy pink netting and sparkles surrounded my little girl like a cloud. The crown that came with it has a small cameo of Princess Aurora on it, surrounded by glittering pink gems. She was beautiful, looking just like a tiny Disney Princess.

She wore the dress all day. She tiptoed around gracefully, holding her skirts out and twirling occasionally. When she sat down, she fluffed her skirts around her and arranged herself carefully, perching on the edge of a chair so she didn't crush her dress. I felt like I should bow in her presence.

When my husband came home from work, he oohed and aahed over her dress, telling her how beautiful she was. When it was time for dinner, he took her hand and said, "May I escort you to dinner, Princess Abigail?"

She snatched her hand back with an indignant flip that only a real princess could muster.

"I'm NOT Princess Abigail."

Amused, my husband asked, "Oh? Then who are you?"

"I'm Stinkin' Beauty!"

Truer words have never been spoken. When we all dissolved into hysterics, she rolled her eyes and did a delicate stomp to her seat at the dinner table. Her twisting of words was unintentional, but it will never be forgotten. She will always be our little Stinkin' Beauty.

I'm a complete and total slacker. It's evident in the fact that the dust bunnies under my furniture brandish weapons and have organized an army. It's evident in the fact that my "to be washed" pile is always larger than my "to be folded" pile. Gosh, it's even evident in the fact that I have a "to be folded" pile.

I will never be one of those people who fold laundry directly from the dryer. I'm more of an "Is anyone out of underwear, forcing me to wash clothes?" kind of laundry person. I see no problem with this. Well, not usually. On occasion, I need a specific item of clothing and have to do emergency laundry. Those are the times when I curse my slovenliness, but it doesn't last long - only about as long as the dryer takes to run a cycle.

I'm fortunate to have a washing machine that runs a cycle in less that 15 minutes. It chugs and scrubs and cleans my clothes like a poorly paid laundry lady, minus the poorly paid part. I pay my washer well. Two dollars a load, to be exact. I am the proud owner of a coin-operated washing machine. Our washing machine went kaput a couple of years ago. I assumed my husband would fix it, because that's what he does. He has a huge box of zip ties and thousands of dollars worth of tools. He fixes everything. Everything except my washing machine. This time, he promised to bring me home a new one.

I should have questioned that, but my brain malfunctioned and I let it go. He brought me home a washing machine. He has a friend who picked up a great deal on a truckload of coin-operated washing machines, and he worked out some kind of deal with him to get one of them. I don't know what the deal was, because I didn't ask. I was too busy standing with my mouth open, wondering if I had enough quarters in the house to do a load of laundry.

I lose my laundry quarters often. They dissapear into little pockets, toll booths, the hands of the ice cream truck driver, and the bottom of the washing machine. It's a mystery how they wind up in the washer, and it's annoying that I never discover that until I've dumped the whole load in there and tried to start the cycle. You'd think I would learn to check for quarters before I put the clothes in the washer, right? Why do I even have to worry about that? Seriously, if I start questioning all the weird things that happen in my life, I'll never have time to do another load of laundry, ever. Hey... that's a good plan.

I'm feeling extra slackerish today. I know, that's not a word, but I'm too lazy to find the right one. It's raining outside and I have nothing pressing to do. It might be a good day for a princess tea party with my daughters. Heck, maybe I'll even throw a load of laundry in the washer while we're having tea and cookies. If I can find enough quarters, that is.

Moments like these make the world go round

There are some moments in life that stay with you forever. When you have children, those treasured snippets of life are many, but they stay tucked away deep inside your heart and mind so that one day you can look back and remember how precious childhood is.

On Saturday, I went to a BBQ with my family. We've been to this friend's house a few times before, and we always have a good time. I love the laid back feeling of an outdoor gathering in the summertime. Good friends and good food make good memories for all of us.

The day could have been ruined by the dark clouds that threatened the sky. When the storm began, a handful of people packed up and headed for home. The rest of us kicked back under the canopies set up in the yard and watched the rain fall softly on the grass around us. There's something soothing about sitting outside and watching the rain. It's as if the drip-drops of water just wash away all the stress of life. Everything slows down a little and gets washed clean by fat, sweet drops of water.

The kids were too tempted by the cool shower, and kept slipping toward the edges of the canopy. I watched my daughters inch forward until the streams running off the slanted roof were pouring directly onto their small heads. They would giggle and jump back, then start inching forward again. They whispered to each other, heads bent together, causing a hush over the crowd as we all strained to hear what they were saying. Holding hands and grinning mischievously, they ran giggling right out into the middle of the yard, faces turned up toward the sky. They ran in circles for a minute and came back to the cover of the canopy. Crystalline drops of water dripped down their noses and off the ends of their hair, and pure joy shone from their tiny faces.

My husband and I were quietly watching them play, holding hands and smiling at our own memories of playing in the rain as children. I felt a twinge of longing for my own days of carefree abandon, but it was quickly overpowered by the joy of watching my daughters laugh and dance in an afternoon shower. They stopped and bent over next to a tree stump, poking and giggling at something in the grass. When they came running back this time, it was with a bullfrog in tow.

Abby held it gently in both hands, running her funny, wobbly run until they reached the canopy. They were so excited to show us their prize that they forgot to hold on to the frog. He plopped into the wet grass at their feet, and they chased him in circles until Molly got close enough to scoop him up. They took turns passing him back and forth, talking to him and patting him on the head. Abby held him up, right in front of her face, and did something that will be forever imprinted in my memory. Like a tiny princess, she smiled a sweet little smile and kissed the frog right on the nose.

They both giggled, then Molly took the frog and set him carefully on the grass. She leaned over and whispered to him that he should go home to his Mommy and Daddy, then said goodbye. The two of them stood holding hands, watching their new friend hop to freedom. They waved goodbye, then turned to run back into the rain.

Even now, my eyes fill with tears at the beauty of those moments. It takes my breath away to look at my children and see real, unblemished happiness living inside of them. I know that days will come soon enough when they will find disappointment in a rainy day. I know that will certainly not be the last frog that Abby will kiss in her search for her Prince Charming, and I know that it will not always be so easy for Molly to say goodbye. I wish they could know that they should treasure these days, and I pray that one day they will be able to see their own children laughing and catching raindrops on their tongues.

My mom even thinks they're weird

What does it say about my children that my own mother calls them weird?

We were hanging out at her house yesterday, doing some chores for her and visiting. My mom was quiet, which is unusual for her. I watched her for a while and realized she was just watching the kids. The girls have recently learned the chicken dance, and they do it often. Their version of it is a little different from what you may know as the chicken dance. What they do is much more like the way real chickens would dance, if they were inclined to do so. There is no order to it. They tuck their hands up in their armpits, then do this combination of jumping and running all over the room. They do, however, have the most annoying part of the whole thing down pat - the song. They know every note of it, and they sing it loudly while they do their crazy flapping thing.

It's my own fault that they know the song. I bought Molly this stupid dancing chicken at Easter, and it's been played until the batteries died. Someone replaced them, instantly putting him at the very top of my list. He spends a lot of time at the top of The List. I still haven't forgiven you for it, honey.

The girls chicken danced for pretty darn near an hour without stopping, then they lined up directly in front of my mother and launched into a rousing chorus of "It's a Small World." I let them have at it. It's not fair that I'm the only one who is subjected - I mean treated - to this kind of entertainment daily, so I let them sing for her. They sang for a long time. When mom's eyes started to cross, I sent them to find something else to do.

When the girls left the room to find something to destroy, we noticed Bryan. He was laying on the couch with his head hanging over the side, iPod headphones firmly in place, bobbing his head back and forth. He plays his music loud, like a good teenager. It was loud enough that when the song ended and a new one began, we clearly heard it switch. Two seconds into the next song, his eyes popped open and he jumped off the couch like something bit him in the butt. He yelled like I wasn't sitting directly in front of him, 6 feet away. "MOOOOOMMMM!"

He stood in front of me, mouth working like a codfish, which reminded me of Mary Poppins. Close your mouth, Michael, you are not a codfish. When he finally found the ability to form words, a torrent flew forth from his mouth.

"Moooommmmm, I can not believe you put this song in my iTunes! I hate the Little Mermaid! I don't want to be a part of her world! I am so going to kill you! WHY would you do that, and WHY didn't you tell me? If my friends see this song on my iPod I will never live it down! Grrrrrrrrrrrr!"

Oops. I can see how that might be a little embarrassing for him. In spite of the fact that he was obviously traumatized, I couldn't help but sing the song.

"Look at this stuff..."

"Mom, no."

"Isn't it neat?"

"Oh, mom. Really?"

"Wouldn't you think my collection's complete?"

"Mom, I swear, if you do that in front of my friends on Tuesday I'll die."

"Wouldn't you think I'm a girl, girl who has everyyyythinggggg...."

He left the room, grumbling under his breath, wondering if it was possible to actually die from embarrassment. Mission accomplished.

Because I'm easily distracted (oooh, shiny!), I didn't notice that the girls never came back in the room. I called them, wondering what they found to do that entertained them for a full ten minutes. They came running, and I found out. Toilet paper. They were playing with toilet paper. Abby was wearing a long TP scarf, flipping it over her shoulder with the skill of a madam. Molly decorated herself a little differently with her TP. She had two footlong lengths of it, each twisted tightly at one end, stuffed firmly up each nostril and trailing out of her nose. It was like the worst possible case of nose hair gone wrong. She stood in front of me, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

I looked at my mom. She was shaking her head, a look of amazement on her face. "Your kids are SO weird."

Yeah, they are, and I love them for it. I can't imagine where they get that from. ;-)

A day in review

Today has been wonky. Yeah, I know, wonky isn't really a word. It's been a rough day, so I'll make up words if I want to. Anyway, I kept a journal. Here it is.



1 am - Go to bed. I know it's odd to start a journal of my day with bedtime, but it's odd that I go to bed after midnight, so there you have it. My day started with bedtime.

9:30 am - My husband and I were woken rudely. There's nothing like a three year old doing jumping jacks on your stomach to drive you out of bed first thing in the morning.

10:30 - Making breakfast for everyone is something I try to do on days we're all here at a decent hour and when I've had coffee. On work and school days, they eat whatever they scrounge out of the kitchen, and I don't feel guilty about it. I made breakfast this morning. I was busy toasting biscuits and scrambling eggs when my foot slid a little. I was mildly annoyed at whoever dropped an ice cube, but kept cooking. I turned to grab a potholder and *whomp* slid right into the counter. What the hell?

There is a puddle the size of Lake Okeechobee in the middle of my kitchen. I stood looking at it for a minute, contemplating where it came from. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Abby streak by the kitchen, butt naked. Pee. It was pee that I slipped in. Super.

11:15 - I had to tell my husband that the gas tank in both cars are completely empty before he leaves to drive 44 miles to some dude's house for some unknown reason. In this day and age, telling someone they need to stop for gas in never a fun thing. He moaned. He groaned. He whined. I reminded him that I water skied in a puddle of pee an hour earlier, and he shut up. Sometimes I have to put things into perspective for him.

11:16 - Realize I left ATM card in the ATM machine yesterday. Oops. I called the bank to see if someone might have turned it in, but she told me the ATM would have eaten it after a few seconds. Great. Well, at least there was one less ATM who had to beg for a meal last night.

2:20 PM - Stop looking for pin # to the other ATM card. I don't know how I forgot it, but I did. It's on a paper somewhere in my house. My son suggested looking in the filing cabinet, where all the other important papers are. I laughed hysterically at the suggestion that I would be even remotely organized, then sent my husband to the bank.

2:25 - Clean mascara off Abby.

3:15 - Realize we never had lunch. Feed kids marshmallows, saltine crackers, and iced tea.

3:40 - Leave to take Bryan to football practice. It's hotter than Hades, but they're tough (and mildly stupid), and they practice anyway. Running laps and tackling each other for two hours in the blazing sun while dressed in 200 pounds of pads is alright, but if I ask my son to take a bag of trash out I get the "It's too hoooooootttt" whine. That's a prime example of teen logic for you.

4:00 - Discover there's no football practice. The school was locked up tighter than a chastity belt. Why did we not know there was no practice? Well, I'll tell you. When you leave a not-quite-14 year old in charge of his own schedule, you wind up doing things like driving to a place you're supposed to be only to find out you weren't supposed to be there. Grr.

4:30 - Interrupt a game of couch-cushion king of the mountain. Not only did they have all the cushions stacked up, but Bryan was laying on the floor with them stacked on his back, and Molly was standing on top of the stack, balancing herself like a surfer riding a gnarly wave, dude. My ERP (Emergency Room Prevention) radar went off, and I caught them before someone got hurt.

4:35 - Put the couch back together while the kids take the cushion off the futon to make a slide. Warn them not to slide it down the stairs.

4:45 - Interrupt a game of ping-pong racquetball, not because they were hurting the wall, but because Abby kept running in front of them and getting smacked in the head with the paddles.

5:15 - Realize there's nothing for dinner except the other half of the bag of marshmallows and a sleeve of saltine crackers. I really couldn't justify feeding them that twice in one day. Even my kids have limits.

5:30 - Decide to go shopping. I hate shopping. It's like hell to shop with three kids, but when my husband is home, shopping is like multi-tasking. I can buy food and get away from my kids, all in one hour! Yay me!

5:45 - Answer the phone for the 8th time since deciding to go shopping and start doodling on a Chinese food menu, trying to decide whether I'd rather have the company of General Tso or the twins, Sweet and Sour.

6:30 - Have a discussion yet again about why guns are not allowed in the house. I don't care if it's a 22 that is made to look exactly like an AK 47. Seriously. I. Don't. Care.

7:20 - Look at the clock and realize we still haven't had dinner. Call for pizza.

7:25 - Wonder where Molly is and find her tied to a chair in front of the TV, watching The Simpsons Movie.

7:45 - Untie Molly and eat the pizza.

8:15 - Let the kids down to watch Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, only to discover all of the cheese from Abby's pizza is stuffed down the front of her pants. She's singing a song about cheese on her butt. The boys chime in with a chorus of comments about cutting the cheese and washing more often. It's definitely time to begin the bedtime routine.

9:30 - Relax with a stiff drink, content knowing that all three kids are in their bedrooms, entertained. The girls have a TV in their bedroom, and were squealing and shouting and begging for an oompa-loompa. Yeah, I know - I'm going straight to hell.

9:40 - Have a conversation with Molly about proper booger disposal. She informed us that she usually wipes them on the floor or the wall, but that sometimes Mommy makes her wipe them on a tissue (all said with a gooey green blob hanging from her fingertip). When reminded that she should never eat the boogers, she had the nerve to look surprised, as if she'd never been told that before.

10:00 - Have a conversation with Bryan about condoms.

10:05 - Bang head against wall until a lump forms.

10:30 - Attempt to download songs from the internet onto my MP3 player. I'm clearly not young enough to make this happen. If you're wondering if I can program a VCR, the answer is no.

1 AM - Go to bed. How did this happen again? Who knows. My day in review is a testament that I can spend an entire day being busy while accomplishing absolutely nothing. It's my greatest talent. I can teach you, grasshopper. Just don't ask me to program your VCR.

Arrrrrrrrrgggggghhhhhhhhh!

My kids are killing me.

Please.

I could charge admission to my car.

I've been spending a lot of time in the car lately. One of the downsides to being a parent is that you automatically become a chauffeur (and a maid, laundress, tutor and personal chef). It gets tiring, driving from here to there all the time. Lucky for me, I have entertaining children.

My kids love to listen to the radio in the car, mainly because we car dance. If you've never car danced, you should try it. It will most definitely entertain you, and will absolutely humiliate your teenagers. We were driving down a 6 lane highway the other day when "Mr. Roboto" came on the radio. My son started praying out loud that all the stoplights would be green. I guess God has a sense of humor, because we got stopped every quarter mile. I do a mean robot, and now the girls do, too. I would pretend to feel sorry for my son, but... well, I don't. He has done his share of embarrassing things, so he can suck it up and deal.

I like to sing in the car, too. I don't sing in the shower. I actually don't sing anywhere but the car. I wasn't blessed with a melodious voice, so it's best to confine my singing as much as possible. I get a little too much echo in the shower, and I don't even want to hear my warbling repeated back to me, so the shower is out. The car works for me. My favorite genre is 80's music, and I seriously know every song written in that decade. One of the local stations does a "Friday Night 80's" show, and we happened to be in the car for it on Friday (thus the Mr. Roboto dance party). A few minutes after I retired my robot, I heard a popular tune from my early teen years. I was belting it out at top volume, much to my son's chagrin. He did the mega-sigh, and I kept on singing.

"Tell it to my heart, tell me I'm the only one, is this really love or just a gaaaaame.."

"Hey, Mom? Who sings this song?"

"Taylor Dayne!"

"Ummm, can we keep it that way?"

"Fine, then. No more serenade for you. There are children in third world countries who never got a serenade in the car by their loving mother. How dare you complain. I'm ashamed of you."

"You're ashamed? Pffft."

That wasn't nice. At least I tone it down a little when his friends are with us. I try to sing songs from decades that they were alive in.

My most recent car entertainment has been courtesy of my daughters. I really don't know where they learned this, but they yell at other cars. I'm not an aggressive driver, and I keep my road rage in check by singing badly, so I'm certain that they did not learn it from me. I'll have to remember to thank their father.

So I'm driving down the highway (singing Life is a Highway - imagine that) and hit a little bit of congestion. I slow to a crawl, and turned the radio down a little. I know that I'm not the only person who adjusts the volume of the radio to match the speed I'm driving, so don't laugh at me. When I go slow, I have to turn it down. It just makes sense. Anyway, when I slowed down, I heard a bellow from the backseat. "Move out of the way, cars!"

Awww, cute.

"I said, move out of the way, FARTHEADS!"

What? Oh, no. I swear, I did not teach her that word, either. Abby chimed in with a, "Yeah, fawtheads!"

Super-dee-duper. I'm always proud when they add new words to their vocabularies, but it seems like every third new word is one that they can't say in church. I glanced to my left, and noticed a nice looking older couple in an expensive sedan waving at my daughters. I could see from their giggly grins that they thought my kids were being cute. I looked in the rearview mirror in time to see Molly sticking her tongue out, and Abby waving while chanting, "Hi, fawtheads! Hi, fawtheads!"

I'm so proud. I'm thinking about making them signs. I'm already out of the running for Mother of the Year, so I might as well make my children useful. Next time I'm stuck in traffic, I'll give them signs to hold up to other drivers. I think I'll start with a pair of signs, one for each girl. Molly can hold "You're ugly," and Abby can hold, "and your momma dresses you funny." I'd laugh if I saw that while driving. Then again, I have a sick, sick sense of humor.

My kids are going to wind up on YouTube one day. I just hope they're more popular than the Britney Spears guy.

The Energizer Bunny meets Tony Montana

Being a parent is not conducive to restful sleep. It starts during pregnancy, when heartburn, backaches and leg cramps wake you throughout the night. When I was pregnant with my son, I had heartburn that went beyond discomfort. It was like a bomb went off somewhere in my digestive system every single evening. I'd wake up from a dead sleep, sure that someone had poured acid straight down my esophagus. I ate Tums like candy. It was awful.

With Molly, it was backaches. All night long, some invisible demon played street hockey with my back muscles. It was also the only time when she was awake. Many nights, I laid in my bed wondering if she would always be such a night owl. That was awful, too.

When I was pregnant with Abigail, I threw up. Morning sickness? HA! I asked my doctor to test me for the Ebola virus, because I was sure some awful illness had taken over my body. I'd wake up at 3am to race to the bathroom and vomit. Awful.

When they're born, it's a whole new ballgame. They wake up and cry because they're hungry. They wake up and cry because their diapers don't have enough of that gel crap (pardon the pun) in them and they're swimming in a puddle of urine. They wake up and cry because they like the sound of their own voices. Babies wake up at night. They do it a lot.

There comes a point where they don't wake up so much anymore, but by then, your nights of sleeping soundly are over. I can wake from a dead sleep if one of them coughs. I believe it's a natural instinct., and I should be thankful for it, I suppose. If there were a fire, or one of my kids were choking on their tongue, I would know it and could come to the rescue immediately. Woo hoo for me, the midnight rescuer.

Abby's well past her second birthday now, so they mostly sleep through the night. Unfortunately, Molly is one of those rare kids who only needs about forty five minutes of sleep to function. I don't dare give her naps anymore, because she'll be up all night long. She likes to talk, and it's what she does when she wakes up, from the moment her eyes open. If there is nobody willing to give her their undivided attention, she'll talk to herself. She's like the Energizer Bunny, if the Energizer Bunny were on crack.

Last night, right around midnight, I woke up because I heard my bedroom door open. It scared me, because it was opening very slowly and making this ominous creaking sound. I looked up, fully prepared to see a man with a machete and a hockey mask standing in my doorway. Instead, I saw a teeny little girl with a fuzzy pink blanket and flowered pajamas.

"Molly, what are you doing up?"

"Hi mom! What are you guys doing in here?"

"Playing tiddlywinks. What does it look like we're doing? We're sleeping. Go back to bed."

"I want to play tillydawinks. What's tillydawinks?"

I elbowed my husband, hoping he'd get up and shoo her off to bed. He snorted, rolled over, and started snoring again almost instantly. Molly crawled up in the bed and wedged herself between us.

"Sooooo, what are you guys doing? Sleeping?"

He woke up. He snarled at Molly and mumbled something incoherent. It may have been a curse word. I gave Molly a hug and instructions to go back to bed. She crawled down from the bed and left the room. I heard the refrigerator door. That's not good. I elbowed my husband again and told him to go deal with her. This time, I'm sure it was a curse word.

Molly came back, this time bearing gifts. "I brought you cheese, mom."

Yum. Everyone wants plastic-wrapped cheese in the middle of the night. "Molly, what are you doing? Go back to bed."

"I'm hungry."

Well, there's a shocker. The kid is a bottomless pit. She's hungry before I get the dinner table cleared. I told her to eat her cheese then go back to bed. She crawled back in between us to finish her snack.

"Daddy, why are you naked?"

That woke him up. He sat straight up in the bed and looked at her. I could see the confusion in his eyes. He was probably wondering what he missed and when we got company. He looked at the clock, looked at her, looked back at the clock and hissed, "Back. To. Bed. NOW."

"Daddy, you should wear pants to bed. I wear pants to bed 'cause if I don't I might pee in my bed and then my bed would be wet and I would have to be cold and wet and you'd have to give me new blankets and what if I peed on my pillow and I like my pajamas 'cause they have flowers on them and I have cheese 'cause I'm hungry and why are you naked oh 'cause your pants were wet, right?"

Energizer Bunny. Crack. I'm so not kidding.

I finally got her back in bed, then I listened to her talking to a stuffed bunny. I heard a noise that sounded suspiciously like a dresser drawer. I snuck down the hall to peek around the door to her room. She was putting panties on the bunny, telling it that it had to wear pants to bed.

"Little bunny, if you take these pants off and pee in my bed, you're gonna be in big trouble. I'll make you go sleep with Daddy. He's naked and he has a lot of hair on his tummy."

She's right. It's scary stuff.

She eventually fell back asleep. I went back to bed and woke my husband with a pair of pajama pants in my hand. He put them on backwards and fell back asleep before he had them pulled up all the way, so his entire butt was sticking out. I resisted the urge to smack it. I hate that he can sleep through these kind of things. I made myself feel better by kicking his shins a few times under the guise of 'getting comfy.' He didn't even wake up for that. Bastard.

I'm going to work on finding the formula for whatever it is that gives my daughter this kind of energy with a minimum of sleep. If I figure it out, I'll market it. I'll sell it cheap, probably on a street corner somewhere in the shady part of town. I'll hook you up. Yo. Fo shizzle.

I need sleep.