Cars and trucks and things that go to the bathroom

My oh my was last night a doozy.

The Little Man has entered a phase where he no longer wants to sleep in his own bed. I’ll put him to bed and say goodnight and he will have a full on tantrum. Last night I just went downstairs. We have a gate at the top of the staircase to prevent him from falling down the steps. (Actually, it’s to prevent the cats from bothering us at night, since the Little Man can now safely navigate the stairs.) Until last night I didn’t think he could open that gate but in his transformation into the Incredible Hulk, he got the gate open. I’ve been trying to avoiding staying in his room with him until he falls asleep, but I had little choice last night. I compromised by sitting on the floor next to his bed and watching a documentary on the making of Season 1 of Millennium while he dozed off. It took an hour.

Even then, he didn’t stay asleep. He woke up asking for me and I had to go back in there and sit on the floor until he fell back asleep. Kelly brought up the Little Miss at about the same time. The Little Miss seemed happy, and indeed she was, until a little while later when she started to cry and then scream. It woke up the Little Man who proceeded to come into our room and since we couldn’t juggle both, the Little Man ended up sleeping with me. Once he was asleep again, Kelly and I took the Little Miss downstairs. We tried everything to console her, including giving her a bath. She would calm down for minutes at a time and then start shrieking again.

Add to this the fact that the major road down from our street is being resurfaced and said resurfacing is taking place between 9pm and 5am to prevent traffic backups. The trucks are loud. At one point, the Little Man, curled up in a soft blanket and nestled in my arms, had quieted down and I could hear the trucks rumbling as if they were just outside our front door.

“I hope the Little Miss starts crying again soon,” I said Kelly. “It will help drown out the sound of those (redacted)¹ trucks.

It was frustrating for everyone, not the least of which the Little Miss, who I imagined very clearly pontificating on our ineptitude as parents:

“I am telling you exactly what is bothering me, why don’t you listen for god-sake,” she was saying. “How obvious do I have to make it for you? Have you any sense at all? My goodness, if these are the parents I’ve inherited then I’m in real trouble. That can tell a complaint from a cry. How am I supposed to get across to them the urgent significance of the matter at hand? Pink Floyd comes to mind,” she continued, “‘Is there anybody out there?’ Oh, great, now they are going to put me in the bathtub. I’M FINE THANK YOU. I DON’T NEED A BATH! A NEED TO POOP, OKAY, IS THAT PLAIN ENOUGH FOR YOU? I NEED TO TAKE A (expletive removed)-ING DUMP. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?”

Meanwhile, the trucks outside seemed to do nothing but drive backwards, based on the constant BEEP BEEP BEEP we were hearing.

Eventually, somehow, everyone quieted down and maybe we slept some, too. For a little while anyway.