Paint Fumes on the Brain

Before I got married, I vowed when I had kids I’d never be the kind of lame person who spent my weekends working on my house and yard. I would, instead, head to the hills whilst hiking and biking to my little married heart’s content.

Guess what? Reality bites. Work is all we’ve done lately as we prepare for Junior’s arrival next month. Landscaping has been eating up the majority of our time the past couple of months. I have vowed that if we ever build a house again, I will ensure we have ample provisions to pay good money for someone else to do it. After all, that’s my mantra when it comes to sewing; why not yardwork as well?

Our biggest project last weekend was painting Junior’s room. I previously had great aspirations for his abode–cool wall hangings, borders and cooler-than-cool chalkboard paint for him to scribble above his bed. Guess what? Reality bites. In the end, we just slapped down a coat of paint and called it good. Perhaps if we wax ambitious in the next few weeks we’ll drag ourselves back in there. But it’s not like he really cares what his nursery looks like, right?

As part of our painting process, we moved all the furniture out of Junior’s room, including a couple of twin beds. We placed one in Haddie’s room beside her crib while we painted. When it came time for her nap, she was thrilled to see a “big-girl bed” in her room. And then I got a “brilliant idea” (mind you, brilliance is relative when exhausted and overworked): I would choose this month of all months to transition her to a real bed from her crib.

It started great! We snuggled up in the bed , kissed bye-bye and I walked out. She started to get up to explore her room but I reminded her one of the privileges of sleeping in a big-girl bed is actually staying in it. And she did. A half hour later, I peeked in on her and she was curled up in a little ball. I was so touched by how she was growing up that I dragged Jamie with paint-stained hands into her room to see. “Touching,” Mr. Monotone warily stated.

We continued painting but before long we heard her cries again. “She’ll just go back down. It’s way too early,” I prophesied. And it was. But the different denominator this time was she was not sequestered in her jail….errr…crib. Mr. Monotone cast me an “I told you so glance” and suddenly my stupidity struck me: why the crap would I want to set the world’s worst sleeper loose? Ever since her suicide attempt a couple of months ago when she launched out of her crib in rebellion over Binky’s “disappearance,” the only thing we have going for us is she’s resolved that life is better on the Inside than the Outside. Prison breaks only result in pain and suffering.

And so I stuck her back in her crib. And she slept through the night. At least I think she did. All I know is she wasn’t knocking on my door or disassembling her bedroom. At the rate we’re going, she’ll probably get parole in six months. Or would that be years?….

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