Apparently the universe thought I was so high on myself after the 33 minutes of pure fun on Wednesday morning that I should have another chance to test those momming skills to which I dedicated an entire blog post.
So, on Friday night, I woke up to Maggie crying around 11pm. Usually, the wifey is the first line of defense at night, as if I wake up it can take me hours to fall back asleep, and she’s asleep in seconds upon returning her head to the pillow (a clear conscience, she’d tell you).
However, after what felt like at least a half hour I was still hearing crying/screaming/yelling and wasn’t sleeping, anyway, so I got up and tagged in. Naturally, the spicy-as-ever-pepper wanted nothing to do with me and just screamed harder as the wifey left the room, not using any words or in any way communicating what the problem was.
This was a common occurrence (at least a few times a week) over the last year or two during which Maggie had night terrors (versus nightmares) regularly, but she hasn’t had them in awhile and seemed, at least to me in my own barely awake state, to be fully conscious (unlike how night terrors work).
She was scratching at her head and skin as though she was covered in ants and desperately trying to get them off. She kept pulling at her hair and rubbing her feet on her sheets in what seemed like an attempt to self sooth but also panic. I started offering to put her hair up and she just kept grunting and crying. I offered to take her socks off, rub her feet, get her different clothes - anything I could I think of. The only thing she didn’t growl a “no” to was an offer of tummy medicine (which is not surprising, my kids are medicine hounds that we have to pacify with placebos like “nose medicine” - that are really just little red round candies in a Rudolph the red nosed reindeer tin). Yet, every time I explained I would need to go to the kitchen to get the medicine she would cry harder. I eventually offered to carry her with me to the kitchen, but that went nowhere.
Meanwhile, Ellen.
I remember reading about the whole "twin sibling's cries don't wake the other one up" thing when I was pregnant and thinking it was unlikely witchcraft that twin books spouted to keep my blood pressure down. Yet, since they were newborns, one can scream and the other will sleep through it (although that’s a completely different story when they are both awake during the day). We’re very fortunate that middle of the night cries have been scarce since they were about 10 weeks old, but nevertheless grateful that when they do happen, it doesn’t quickly escalate to two crying, tired, cranky children. Although, I have discovered in the last few years that it is apparently not a guarantee (really, really sorry for those parents).
So, as one does when faced with spicy pepper in all her glory, I start randomly asking her some leading questions in hopes of getting somewhere, even though I was 20 minutes in, very tired of standing there (damn loft beds), and just wanted to lay down under her bed.
I'm out to lunch on if it’s just opening her up a door she can walk through and finally get out of her own way, or if I have just been insanely fortunate in selecting the right questions to ask lately, but once again, simple, leading questions for the win.
She stops crying, immediately, and starts vomiting words from her mouth with what feels like a palpable sense of relief (I mean, what kind of monster am I that I didn't know it was the snowman, to begin with?!). (And, on a related yet tangential note, if you’re familiar with the critical friends "dilemma protocol," I’m considering a change in how I explain what “clarifying questions” are to “the only types of questions you should ask a toddler mid-meltdown.")
We chat that snowman life for a few minutes while her anxious scratching, rubbing, and pulling slows down.
I offer her a hair tie and she requests two pony tails to which I oblige in the pitch black room (I carry around multiple hair ties 24/7 these days - you can never to be too prepared). What else does one do at midnight on a Friday night, if not playing hair salon? I even insisted on redoing them once in pursuit of something that resembled symmetry - mostly because I don’t want to be called back in in twenty minutes because she can’t get her head flat on the pillow or because of some other fabricated flaw turned excuse.
She gets herself wiggled back under her covers (which are “a lot” as she says, not yet fully grasping her weighted blanket’s intentionally excessive weight compared to any other blanket in the house). She agrees to let me go get tummy medicine and as I bring it back she lays her head on her pillow and snuggles one of the six hundred animals/dolls in her bed. She eats it and tells me she is all good, and will go back to sleep. And that she loves me. Oh, and:
The next morning I made the wifey try and guess what the root issue had turned out to be (spoiler: she couldn’t).
Thankfully, she’s taken the snowman’s great fall pretty well, which happened the next day as we warmed back up to the 50s and couldn’t get “mommy” (the snowman) on the train to the North Pole in time.
Thanks, universe. Really glad I’ve earned mom-of-the-year in my wife's eyes this week, but I’m good now, and very open to lessons in other aspects of my life for a bit.
Plenty of work to do elsewhere.
So, on Friday night, I woke up to Maggie crying around 11pm. Usually, the wifey is the first line of defense at night, as if I wake up it can take me hours to fall back asleep, and she’s asleep in seconds upon returning her head to the pillow (a clear conscience, she’d tell you).
However, after what felt like at least a half hour I was still hearing crying/screaming/yelling and wasn’t sleeping, anyway, so I got up and tagged in. Naturally, the spicy-as-ever-pepper wanted nothing to do with me and just screamed harder as the wifey left the room, not using any words or in any way communicating what the problem was.
This was a common occurrence (at least a few times a week) over the last year or two during which Maggie had night terrors (versus nightmares) regularly, but she hasn’t had them in awhile and seemed, at least to me in my own barely awake state, to be fully conscious (unlike how night terrors work).
She was scratching at her head and skin as though she was covered in ants and desperately trying to get them off. She kept pulling at her hair and rubbing her feet on her sheets in what seemed like an attempt to self sooth but also panic. I started offering to put her hair up and she just kept grunting and crying. I offered to take her socks off, rub her feet, get her different clothes - anything I could I think of. The only thing she didn’t growl a “no” to was an offer of tummy medicine (which is not surprising, my kids are medicine hounds that we have to pacify with placebos like “nose medicine” - that are really just little red round candies in a Rudolph the red nosed reindeer tin). Yet, every time I explained I would need to go to the kitchen to get the medicine she would cry harder. I eventually offered to carry her with me to the kitchen, but that went nowhere.
Meanwhile, Ellen.
I remember reading about the whole "twin sibling's cries don't wake the other one up" thing when I was pregnant and thinking it was unlikely witchcraft that twin books spouted to keep my blood pressure down. Yet, since they were newborns, one can scream and the other will sleep through it (although that’s a completely different story when they are both awake during the day). We’re very fortunate that middle of the night cries have been scarce since they were about 10 weeks old, but nevertheless grateful that when they do happen, it doesn’t quickly escalate to two crying, tired, cranky children. Although, I have discovered in the last few years that it is apparently not a guarantee (really, really sorry for those parents).
So, as one does when faced with spicy pepper in all her glory, I start randomly asking her some leading questions in hopes of getting somewhere, even though I was 20 minutes in, very tired of standing there (damn loft beds), and just wanted to lay down under her bed.
I'm out to lunch on if it’s just opening her up a door she can walk through and finally get out of her own way, or if I have just been insanely fortunate in selecting the right questions to ask lately, but once again, simple, leading questions for the win.
"Did you have a bad dream?"[insert the slightest, barely audible split second hesitation and break from crying]
“Are you scared?”
"Are you tired?"
"Are you worried?
"Are you worried about Momma?"Nope. Nope. And just as crying was escalating again...
"Are you worried about Mommy?"
"Are you worried about Ama?"
"Are you worried about Apa?"
"Are you worried about... [waaaaait it for it...] ...your snowman?"
She stops crying, immediately, and starts vomiting words from her mouth with what feels like a palpable sense of relief (I mean, what kind of monster am I that I didn't know it was the snowman, to begin with?!). (And, on a related yet tangential note, if you’re familiar with the critical friends "dilemma protocol," I’m considering a change in how I explain what “clarifying questions” are to “the only types of questions you should ask a toddler mid-meltdown.")
“Mommy I’m so worried my snowman is going to melt and then he’s going to melt and the snowman he will be sad and I’ll be sad and Ellie will be sad and the snowman is going to melt and...it’ll be like Olaf and summer and he’ll melt...”There was more circular babble, but all in the same vein. I respond with similar nonsensical word vomit of my own in hopes of saying at least one thing that comforts her or better yet, gets her to laugh and fully zaps her back to her bedroom and her beautiful little mind, body, and heart (and me back to bed).
“Ohhhh! Your snowman will be ok. Maybe in the morning we could watch Frosty and then can send him to the North Pole while it’s warm. Or, maybe we can do magic like Elsa [I do the magic swirly hands Maggie taught me earlier that day] and make a little personal snow cloud for your snowman! Would you like that?”She giggles and starts to do her own "magic" like Elsa.
We chat that snowman life for a few minutes while her anxious scratching, rubbing, and pulling slows down.
I offer her a hair tie and she requests two pony tails to which I oblige in the pitch black room (I carry around multiple hair ties 24/7 these days - you can never to be too prepared). What else does one do at midnight on a Friday night, if not playing hair salon? I even insisted on redoing them once in pursuit of something that resembled symmetry - mostly because I don’t want to be called back in in twenty minutes because she can’t get her head flat on the pillow or because of some other fabricated flaw turned excuse.
She gets herself wiggled back under her covers (which are “a lot” as she says, not yet fully grasping her weighted blanket’s intentionally excessive weight compared to any other blanket in the house). She agrees to let me go get tummy medicine and as I bring it back she lays her head on her pillow and snuggles one of the six hundred animals/dolls in her bed. She eats it and tells me she is all good, and will go back to sleep. And that she loves me. Oh, and:
K, boo."Our snowman will be ok, mommy, ok?"
Or, maybe it won't be ok
The next morning I made the wifey try and guess what the root issue had turned out to be (spoiler: she couldn’t).
Thankfully, she’s taken the snowman’s great fall pretty well, which happened the next day as we warmed back up to the 50s and couldn’t get “mommy” (the snowman) on the train to the North Pole in time.
Thanks, universe. Really glad I’ve earned mom-of-the-year in my wife's eyes this week, but I’m good now, and very open to lessons in other aspects of my life for a bit.
Plenty of work to do elsewhere.