It's A Boy!

I've known this for some time, but now it's official: Rex is a boy.  What am I going to do?

Today he licked the bathroom floor, wiggled himself halfway under the bed and tried to hump the toilet, all in the space of about twenty minutes ... while screeching joyfully at the top of his lungs. He's not technically crawling yet, but he's almost crawling, and he's devised a way to get where he wants to go:  he gets up on all fours and rocks back and forth faster and faster until his forward momentum shoots him forward a few feet.  He usually lands on his face, which makes him laugh. (Not to worry - he has plenty of cheek fat to absorb the impact.)  Rex is one crazy baby.  He prefers to operate in the nude.

The good news is that his antics have made him interesting to Veronica, whose favorite game is to sit on top of Rex.  She tries to ride him like a horse.  He doesn't seem to mind, but he does twist around so that he can grab a handful of her hair when she tackles him.  It's his only defense, and it works:  the harder she pulls away, the more forcefully he holds on, giggling the whole time.  I don't have to say a word, although the dog probably has an opinion on their wrestling matches.  The other day Rex tried to eat one of Sanchi's paws, and there I drew the line.  It was disgusting.  The bathroom floor is one thing, but the dog?  Verboten.

I hate to stereotype, but Veronica never did anything remotely disgusting when she was Rex's age, and she could have.  She got the same amount of naked time, crawled at about the same age, was exposed to the same toys and furniture layout, the same parenting (more or less). Same dog, too.  She never tried to jump out of her high chair or bang on stuff.  She was civilized and calculating; she had grace and a certain elegance to her cavorting.  Don't get me wrong - she was a baby, and did typical baby stuff, but she did it with finesse.  She's still like that.  If Rex actually does let her ride him at some point, she'll ride sidesaddle wearing a flouncy hat.

Crawling

Cary and Veronica have been teaching Rex to crawl.  For my part, I have been trying to teach Rex to simply lay there, like an overfed baby seal, but so far my efforts are in vain, because Rex is hell bent on moving.  Any day now he's going to be motoring down the hallway.  The dog is in big trouble.

The other night I found Cary down on all fours, demonstrating the proper crawling technique (hand, knee, hand, knee) to a very engaged, very interested Rex, who showed he understood by getting up on all fours and rocking back and forth.  That's his newest baby move, and it's very cute.  He likes to do it while pushing his face down into his rubber giraffe toy Sophie, who is new best friend.  Sophie doesn't mind being dry-humped and slobbered on.  In fact, I'm pretty sure Veronica did the same thing to her back when they were best friends.

The Return of the Broken Toe

So it's once again the middle of the night, and for a change everything is quiet.  Rex has started sleeping through the night more or less, although he still wakes up every night to practice his rolling and crawling techniques.  Veronica did the same thing at this age, and I remember thinking, What the hell is wrong with her? when her antics woke me up.  So now we hear Rex at night, strumming the bars of his crib in the dark, babbling to himself, grunting and squeaking, doing arabesques.  I don't mind.  At least I'm not having to feed him at night any more.

But tonight I'm up, because I have a cold that makes my nose feel like it's full of pepper, and I'm extremely pissed that a cold, of all stupid things, is keeping me up at night now that Rex is sleeping better.  And what's more, both the kids are sick, so we've put a humidifier in each of their bedrooms.  It's to make sure their little noses don't dry out, or their lungs don't burst into flames, that sort of thing, which apparently is the worst that can happen.  Whatever.  You have to put a dash of salt into the water that goes into the humidifier, and the salt helps make the steam come out.  The instructions actually say a dash, or maybe it was a pinch, of salt.  Both measurements are equally ridiculous, and I never get the amount right. The most offensive part is that the humidifier wasn't made in China.  It was made in the good old USA.  

So I'm up because it seems Rex's humidifier isn't making enough steam, and I'm worried that his antics will cause enough dry friction in his crib to actually make him combust, or something like that.  I go to the kitchen and put what seems like a pinch (because a dash apparently wasn't enough) into my hand.  I'm navigating the dark of his bedroom, heading for the red glinty light of the humidifier, when one of my toes catches on the footstool, and I stumble onto the bed.  I almost scream out loud.  Shit, shit, shit fuckety fuck yeow!  Ouch.  I'm certain my toe is broken. The silver lining is that I've managed to hang onto the salt, so I toss it into the humidifier and stumble back to the kitchen.  I put a grape popsicle from the freezer on my toe.  It doesn't help the pain. I eat the popsicle in bed.  

The funny thing is I've broken this toe before, also in the middle of the night, about eight years ago. It's the middle toe on my left foot, my 'Wednesday' toe, as Veronica would say.  I banged it on the wall in the hallway while running naked back to my room from the bathroom after I realized, mid-pee, that my in-laws were sleeping down the hall and might see me naked. I'd forgotten they were visiting and this was before kids, before pajamas and my hideous feeding smock and Cary's ratty brown-beaver bathrobe that makes him look like a homeless Joe Namath.  Before all of it, I used to sleep nude because it was easy and fun and I rarely had to get up in the night, so I was never cold.  And that night I really did break my toe, so Cary had to piggy-back me to the Emergency Room that is thankfully just a few blocks from our house.  (That really comes in handy.)  The kicker was that we were due to leave at 5 am that morning for our honeymoon in Mexico, so we had the taxi pick us up at the hospital, after we spent $500 to learn that there is really nothing you can do for a broken toe.

Red Velvet in a Bowl

Last night I had a dream that Rex was in bed with me.  I used to pull him into bed with me when he was a baby, or should I say a smaller baby, but those days are history (thank god).  In my dream, I had no idea how he got into my bed:  Did my husband put him there as a joke?  Did I?  Or did Rex jump out of his crib?  He's almost capable of it.

Speaking of jumping out, in high school my brother had an amazing fish called Agamemnon. This fish was amazing because he lived a really long time for a fish, like ten years or something, but the most incredible part was that Agamemnon survived multiple, regular suicide attempts.  My parents would often come home (my brother was well into college at that point) to find Agamemnon flopping around on the floor, behind the television or on the bookshelf, having propelled himself up and out of his fishbowl.  

This is even more miraculous because we had two cats.  They were obese and lazy beyond words, but they could probably have gotten a fish laying prone on the floor.  Eventually they got wise to Agamemnon and would wait patiently like Sphinxes, staring up at his bowl, unblinking, for hours.  Jump Motherfucker, jump!  They never got him, but eventually Agamemnon did himself in.  I like to think it was a spectacular, splashy and beautiful death, but most likely he just flopped out.  I think my mom found him stuck to the back of the TV.

Anyway, the whole point here is that I am writing again after a mini-hiatus.  Rex is so big and so active that holding him is like wrangling a chimpanzee.  Feeding him is an Olympic sport requiring all my limbs and brain power to keep him still, or at least latched on.  My wrists have been killing me, so I've been avoiding the keyboard.  But lately I've just been putting Rex on the floor, because like Agamemnon he keeps trying to jump down and out.  Crawling is on the horizon and then Rex will put everything he finds - Polly Pockets, sequins, dog food and other dog items, into his mouth.  I hope he doesn't get H1N1.  If there was a canine flu that people could get, it would be all over our house. It's a good thing we don't own swine.  For a lot of reasons.

Speaking of swine flu, last Sunday night I was convinced Veronica had it for sure.  She had a cold and had been sneezing all day, but it wasn't enough to keep us from going to a barbecue that afternoon.  When we got home, shoehorned Rex into his pajamas and wrestled Veronica into bed, all was quiet until I heard barfing sounds coming from Veronica's room.  Usually when she's sick she moans and groans and says she has to throw up, on and off for hours, whether she has to puke or not.  (Actually, whether she's sick or not.)  But this time sounded like the real thing, so I ran in with the nearest bowl I could find.  Sure enough, blammo! I made it to the bed just in time to catch a huge watery projection of red, nasty, B-movie vomit coming out of my kid.  It was so gross I almost threw up in my mouth, but even worse, I thought she was puking blood!  Sure, it looked like fake blood, but still.  So I screamed for my husband, who came running.  

"I think it's the swine flu," I stage-whispered to him, my eyes growing wide and terrified in the dark.

"Nope," he said. "It was the red velvet cupcake she ate."

Oh.  Well that makes it all better.

Finally, Chaos

Today these things all happened at once, in the following order. Apparently the chaos that happens when you have two kids has finally arrived.

Rex, who is now eating solid food, spit his rice cereal all over me and began to scream.

The doorbell rang.

I tripped over the dog.

Rex dangling from one arm, I answered the door.  It was the lady who was buying something I posted on Craigslist, but she forgot cash. I sent her to the ATM at the corner. What is it about 'cash only' that makes people only bring checks?

Next, Sanchi licked up two Advil that he found on the floor. I was able to get them out of his mouth. (I was briefly tempted to transfer them right into my mouth, as I was developing a massive headache from everything that was going on.)

As I was tossing the Advil in the trash, Veronica swiped an open bag of flour off the counter and began to dance around the kitchen with it.

The doorbell rang again. 

The Craigslist lady was back, asking if I would please help her out to her car because she couldn't carry everything. Apparently she did not notice I was carrying an enormous screaming baby covered in flour. What a dipshit.

The Lunatic Fringe

"I don't want my scissors for a whole week," Veronica says, solemnly handing me a chunk of her hair.  She's just given herself bangs, only these bangs are on the side of her head, and she looks ridiculous.  I believe the French used to call bangs 'the lunatic fringe', back in the 1880s when they were invented.  Bangs, not the French.  

So now she's doling out her own punishments, or as we call them in my house, consequences. We're New-Agey like that around here.  I'm not sure what to do, so I take the scissors, and the hair, and say, "Ok."  Really, what else is there to say?  Or to do?  My precocious kid has taken all the fun out of parenting.  I'm sure by the time she's thirteen she'll be handing down her own sentence for shoplifting and driving herself to juvie, all cigarettes and tattoos.  Great.  Looking forward to it.

The reason I am up at 1:23 am is that I had to change Rex after I fed him, and that woke him up, so now I am waiting for him to stop grunting and go back to sleep.  Thank goodness he is no longer pooping at night, but now he's peeing what seems like quarts (is he drinking Gatorade when I'm not looking?) and I have to give him a new diaper around midnight or he wakes up soaked to his neck.  I'm not kidding.  That has happened exactly twice, when I've attempted to let him go twelve hours at night on just one diaper.  Not good.  Eventually I'll stop feeding him at night and maybe one diaper will do, or maybe I'll have to start using adult Depends on him.  And on myself, so then I won't have to get up either.  I'll just pee my pants, smile peacefully and go back to sleep.  Like Rex does right now.  In theory.

More to come in the morning ...

And He Keeps ... On ... Growing

Rex had his four month checkup today. It's official: he's a baby wonder, what with his gargantuan size and the creeping/crawling thing, and of course his legendary cuteness and winning personality. Our pediatrician got to call in the other doctors to brag about her patient - as if she's responsible for his talents - and they all shuffled past Rex in awe, like they were looking at Lenin's tomb or something. As if.

So Rexie had to get a couple of shots, which he wasn't thrilled about, but he handled it like a trooper. I actually think he was more pissed about the band-aid. When got home I realized he must have grown on the way back from the appointment, because I could not get him out of his clothes to change him. I repeat: I COULD NOT GET HIM OUT OF HIS CLOTHES. They had become hermetically sealed to his burgeoning body, which appeared to have expanded the way a pigeon's stomach puffs up when it eats too much wedding rice. It took me a long, long time to disrobe him. I contemplated getting the shoehorn, but I wasn't sure if it worked in reverse. I'll use it the next time I have to put his clothes on.

How to Outsmart a Preschooler

You can't. At least, I can't. Maybe another preschooler could, but then probably only by accident. My child is whip-smart and the more I try to out-brain her, the more frustrated I get. She is as stubborn as that old mule, Number 7, from The Dukes of Hazard. And yes, arguing with her makes me feel like Uncle Jesse except without Bo and Luke to get me out of 'this cotton-pickin' fix', so I wind up feeling like I'm going to end up in the county jail a) for being a bad parent and b) for having bad hair. It's not fair. At least in Hazard County Jail you get to eat fried chicken while using the jiggle-belt exercise machine. If you are Boss Hogg. Which sometimes I am.

The other day I discovered Veronica watching CNN. It must have come on after her Clifford show ended, or maybe she knows how to use the remote. Anyway, it was the financial report, and she was actually listening. Not just listening, but paying attention. At least it wasn't Fox News. That would have been too much to bear.

Sloppy Kisses

I can tell that I'm Rex's favorite because he gives me sloppy, open-mouthed kisses all the time. His favorite slurp-spot is on my cheek - right or left, it doesn't matter.  I'll be holding him and out of the corner of my eye I'll see his gaping maw coming coming at me, like a snake about to strike. Usually I turn my head just in time to prevent him from latching onto my nose, which I'm sure he'd happily do.  He's happy to get any piece of mama, and that makes me happy.  

He has also taken his rolling to a new level; today he rolled over once, and once again in the same direction, to get to a favorite toy that was across the floor.  He's pretty smart that way. At least that's what I prefer to think, not that it was on accident, or that his tubby little baby inertia kept him going.  One of these days he's going to perform a somersault, or a cartwheel, and then too I'll prefer to think he planned it.  A perfect 10 from the mama-judge.  Not that I'm biased.  

By the way, things are going to get kicked up a notch around here, and soon.  I say this because in addition to his Olympian floor exercise skills, my four-month old son is attempting to crawl.  This is practically unheard of in baby developmental milestone circles.  Again, I am biased, and definitely feeling a little braggy, but mostly I am terrified because now we are going to have to baby-proof the house all over again.  In the past week Rex has been seen, by multiple independent witnesses and on several occasions, up on his knees and elbows.  Rocking back and forth, like a baby spaceship about to take off.  His substantial buttocks and thighs are going to propel him forward any day now, and we are all screwed.  My biggest fear is that, because he's so little and will undoubtedly crawl quicker than lightening, I'll lose him in the house.  So we're back to baby-gate city for awhile, and I can already hear Veronica moaning and groaning about how hard her life will be then.

At least we'll still have our sloppy, slurpy kisses.  

Rex'n'Roll

Rex is rolling all over the place.  This would not be a problem, and would even be kind of cute, if it weren't for the fact that he is too excited to nap anymore.  He's too busy rolling.  So he's really tired a) because he's not napping and b) because he's burning up too many calories doing baby calisthenics.  He's Rexercising.  

I'm tired.  If Rex doesn't nap, then obviously I don't nap.  If I could just put him in his crib and he could quietly roll around it would be one thing; I could pretend he was asleep, put in my earplugs and go get some shuteye downstairs.  But now that he's rolling, he's about as quiet as construction workers in Manhattan.  He yells, grunts, farts and even whistles, just like they do. If Rex happens to roll onto his back, sometimes he'll get stuck that way, stranded like a turtle. I'm not sure why he doesn't just flip back over onto his tummy, because I've seen him do it a dozen times on the floor.  Something about being on his back in his crib must render him temporarily powerless.  And god forbid he should simply fall asleep on his back.   He just won't do it; never has.  So then it's up to me to go back in with my baby spatula and turn him over, otherwise the construction noises start up again.  This time with more hollering.  No sleep for Mama.  I never sleep when I'm in New York City, either.

My Daughter and the Steak Knife

Yesterday was a day of firsts, all around, for our family. I am exhausted just thinking about it.

First, Rex rolled over in his crib. Not the first time he's rolled over, to be sure, but the first time I went in after his nap and saw him with his feet up on the bumper. Staring at the ceiling, just contemplating his life. He may as well have been smoking a cigar.

Then, Veronica rode her bike all the way to the fire station. It was only six blocks, but it was a big deal. She told the fireman she'd been riding for miles and miles and needed something cold to drink. He believed every word. Then she asked him why he was so dirty. Oh, my god.

After the fire house we stopped at the grocery store. We still had Veronica's bike, but no lock, so I let her ride her bike inside. She was very respectful of the other shoppers, even as she zoomed up and down the aisles and narrowly missed knocking over a huge display of glass vodka bottles. No one, including several employees and a store manager, even said boo to me about it because Veronica was so charming. I have a feeling my daughter is going to go through life this way, getting away with things that are normal for her but unorthodox for other folks. Her idea of normal is way off the radar for most regular people. She chose a tiny pumpkin to bring home and insisted on carrying it while she rode her bike.

When we got home I fed Rex, and he blew his first raspberry while nursing, right onto my boob. I actually thought he'd farted, but it came from the wrong end, and then I saw him do it again. He was doing it deliberately. Then, another first: a huge belly laugh from my baby. He's been chuckling for months but this was his first real all-out, hysterical, laughter at something he'd done. Now all he wants do to is blow raspberries and he's going around looking like he has a big secret, like he owns the place. His eyes are full of merry mischief.

After the raspberry incident I went into the kitchen, where I found my daughter calmly, deliberately dissecting her mini-pumpkin with a steak knife. She told me earlier she was going to carve it before Halloween, so there you go. She was holding the knife with the precision of a surgeon wielding a scalpel, and there were tiny, even cuts in the pumpkin. She innocently looked up and said, "I got the knife from the wooden block, and I'm telling you the truth, just like Lincoln and the cherry tree. But I didn't realize it was wrong to take the knife, so you shouldn't be mad."

Well. I wasn't mad, and didn't even correct her about the Lincoln thing. I just quietly removed the knife from her three-and-three-quarter year-old hand, and made a mental note to put the knives out of reach. Then again, they were out of reach before and she got to them anyway, so I think I might just teach her how to use them properly. It seems like she already knows how. But if I did that, I'm sure I'd have to teach her how to properly use matches, and then the creme brulee torch. Where would it end?

I guess we are in for a lot of firsts around here.

Cooling Out

Rex is almost four months old, and there are times when I still can't believe he's real. He's funny, and happy, but also very odd for a baby. For instance, he doesn't really like to suck, but he loves to bite and gnaw on things - my knuckles, arms, ankles, any part of my body, actually.  Feeding him is like nursing a hungry Clydesdale, or a barracuda.  Yet his eyes are unmistakably human:  deep, blue reflecting pools of light.  Gorgeous.  Unlike anything I've ever seen, actually. If he weren't such a shrieking and pooping machine, I'd be convinced he wasn't really a baby. In fact, sometimes it's like aliens are projecting an infant hologram into my house from outer space. 

And while I'm at it, where did Veronica come from?  Both of my children seem like brilliantly kooky little beings from another planet, disguised as humans.  I'm not sure what they are doing here on earth, maybe just chilling out before their next interplanetary assignment.  In any case, they're hilarious, and strange, and it's easy to see that they're related.  It seems like they share a huge secret that no one else knows about.  

The other day Veronica announced to her snack table at school, apropos of nothing, "Sometimes I go into the bathroom to do mischief.  I do naughty things.  I take cigarettes from the shelf and go into the bathroom and smoke them, and sometimes I take Rex in with me, and we just sit there and smoke and cool out."  

!!!!!!!!

Yep, Veronica and Rex are in on something.  My kids are conspiring, and one of them can't even talk yet.  Good thing he has Veronica to talk for him.  Even if she makes stuff up, it's damn interesting.  

Social (Dis)Order

Most days I'd like to trade places with our dog Sanchi, at least for a few hours. Seriously. He sleeps all day, and when he's not laying around hogging my space and breathing my air, he's out at the beach with his personal trainer. Did I mention he gets water, food and a comfy ottoman to sleep on at night? Three hots and a cot, all in exchange for being a dog. We keep hoping one of these days he'll redeem himself, somehow pay us back for nearly six years of mooching, perhaps rescue one of the children or dig up a million dollars in the back yard. Even though he's really smart, we're not getting our hopes up. Right now he's at my side, staring at my fingers as I type. I'm pretty sure he's taking notes for when dogs take over the world.

Sanchi used to be our kid - spoiled, pampered, adored. Babied. Then we started having real babies, and he got bumped to the bottom of the social order, which is where he really should have been all along. These days he gets about as much attention as the laundry, and this gives me one more thing to feel guilty about, even while I'm in the garden picking up his poop. Something doesn't seem quite right about this equation, but since I'm at in charge of 80% of our household poop, I suck it up. Sometimes it seems I'm the one at the bottom of the social order around here. Dog shit should be the least of my concerns.

Speaking of poop, I think I should start composting Rex's manure. Baby manure would be a major cash crop for California, second only to pot, if we could just figure out how to package it for the farmers. Rex's manure alone could be used to fertilize at least an acre of something. I'm sure of it. The day I figure out a way to legally grow marijuana and use baby poop to fertilize it, I'll be a rich woman, no doubt about it. That would shoot me straight to the top of my family's social order. And just think about what excellent weed it would be - an indirect derivative of breast milk, chock full of nutrients and antibodies. I can just hear the potheads now: "That's some good shit, man."

Yes, this one is called Butt Floss

My daughter isn't even four yet, but she's already learning to play the game.  She just gets it. Maybe every parent thinks their kid is this bright, or maybe not.  I've met some parents who admit their children are not very sharp, and I know one father who actually refers to his son as a doofus.  (You know who you are.)    

Today we went to the dentist.  Veronica walked in like she owned the place, and within minutes she had the entire staff, including the evil Nurse Ratched-type receptionist, wrapped around her little finger.  It was like she was doing some clever, adorable standup comedy routine without even breaking a sweat.  She and I were both getting our teeth cleaned, but this was the first time Veronica got to be in her own room, all by her big grown-up self, with the hygienist.  She seemed pretty psyched about it because she'd been brushing her teeth extra long and hard for a couple days, just to make sure she was ready for her appointment.  She's a diligent kid.  She also very diligently scoured the bathroom floor, and then her butt, with her electric toothbrush. I threw it away as soon as I figured out what else she'd been using it for, but I'm not sure how long the butt-scrubbing had been going on.  Quite possibly days.  I'm trying to forget about it, but I keep thinking:  Which is dirtier?  My bathroom floor or her butt?

Anyway, back to the dentist.  So I'm in one room, getting my choppers worked on, which I actually love, and she's next door charming the pants off the fairly kid-savvy hygienist.  I couldn't see any of her antics, so all I got were sound bytes. They went something like this:

"Patty, did you put those stuffed animals all around the room to distract me while you clean my teeth?  Because you know, I'm pretty distracted right now."

"Patty, can you please also sharpen my teeth while you're cleaning them?  Because I'm going to be a lion for Halloween."  

"Patty, my mom said I can have chocolate cookies after the dentist as long as I behave.  And I'm going to brush my teeth after I eat the cookies."  (Ok, she dropped a dime on me, because I did bribe her, and will always and forever bribe her, but to her credit she pulled out a major save in the end. That's my girl.)

"Patty, I want to be just like you when I grow up."

And so on.  Everything she said, and particularly that last thing, elicited the most adoring, sugary oohs and aahs from the office staff.  Even the guy cleaning the windows took off his headphones so he could hear my daughter carry on and watch her bat her gorgeous, sable eyelashes.  And I'm sitting there, in the next room, listening to her but also trying to ignore it all, because I've decided that the dentist is another opportunity for me to have Pretend Alone Time.  As long as a jillion other people are looking after my daughter, cutely holding court in the next room, I might as well grab some shuteye.  After all, I'm used to her brilliance.  I've heard it all before.  

So, I'm pretty sure my daughter is no doofus.  Even though she used her toothbrush on her bottom. You never know - she may be on to something there.   And since I just started letting her floss her own teeth, I'm sure the floss will also make its way down under.  She'll have the cleanest butt around.

My baby is better than your baby

He did it, he did it, he did it!

Hallelujah, hang-ten (spin around and do it again) because my amazing little boy just slept through the entire night.  I have the best, most well-adjusted infant in the whole world!  Fall to your knees and give the one-fisted power salute!  My baby is better than your baby.  Nah, nah, na nah-nah!  

Just kidding.  I'm totally lying.  I thought it might be fun to pretend to be one of those annoying moms whose babies actually do sleep through the night, little flaxen-haired angels laying peacefully upon pillows of eiderdown while tiny fairies dance above their heads, sprinkling pixie dust, blah blah blah.  Rex might someday sleep all the way through the night, when he's twelve and I'm already dead from exhaustion.  Notice I said might sleep through the night. Meanwhile, we're back to nursing at least three times from dusk till dawn.  I don't enjoy it.  I'm pretty sure Rex wakes up so much because he is precocious, because he can already roll over, fart the alphabet and write his name. I'm lying again, but only about the writing part.

When he finally does sleep through the night, I'm sure I will continue to wake up anyway.  It's just what happens.  Maybe I'll train one of Veronica's stuffed animals to nurse, so that way I can still experience the joy of sleepless nights.  She has a large seal that might have breastfeeding potential, and it looks a lot like Rex in the dark.  Or maybe, by some miracle, when my baby starts to sleep more at night I'll sleep more, too.  Not bloody likely, but a girl can hope.  If I still can't sleep I'll just become a supermom who stays up all night, baking perfectly round scones, or something equally stupid.  

On the bright side, my mother just arrived.  The cavalry is here.  She is a grandmothering genius, a one-woman fix-it elixir, a marvel of multitasking.  Nana to the rescue!  

Hallelujah, hang ten (spin around and do it again) ...  

Dang! Double Dang!

There was poop in my underwear today, and it wasn't mine.  I'm fairly sure what happened to me today has never happened to anyone else in the history of parenting, but you never know. Bizarre incidents take place every day, and when you are a mother, they often involve your kid's poop.  So here's how it all went down.  

This morning, since today is Saturday, Veronica took a shower with me.  Rex was in the bathroom too, because he is in the bathroom every time I shower. There is no special Saturday-only rule for him because he is small and less annoying, since he doesn't demand to actually be in the shower with me.  He doesn't hog my spray or pee on my feet.  He's also less impressed by cartoons than Veronica, which is how she stays busy on most mornings while Rex and I are in the bathroom.

Today there was a pretty sizable traffic jam in the bathroom.  Rex was on the floor, and since he can roll over now I have to put him on a much larger blanket.  It takes up a lot of space.  Also on the floor was a stack of my clothes, a stack of Rex's clothes, a pile of extra towels and of course, Veronica's leotard and tutu, which is the only thing she will wear right now. It's safe to say the floor was covered with stuff.  Five minutes after Veronica got into the shower with me, she sang out, "I have to go poo-poo!" 

Of course.

Because this happens a lot, and because I had no desire to have her both pee and poop on my feet, I helped her out of the shower.  Draped in a towel and hunched over like a little old woman, she scuttled across the room, dripping on everything in her path, including Rex.  When she hopped up on the potty, Rex let out a huge squeal of delight - I assumed he was happy, because he loves to watch his sister do anything.

When the shower was over, it was time for all of us to get dressed.  I grabbed my stack of clothes from the floor and started to step into my undies, when lo and behold - Dang!  Double dang!  Shee-it.  

My underwear was covered, coated, with yellow baby shit.  My baby has added projectile pooping to his list of new talents.  That must have been why he was squealing with delight. Next time I will move my clothes pile as far away from his talented bottom as possible.  Maybe I'll need to leave it in the hallway.  

Bed Wars

I have to say that this business of sleeping in the same bed with another person is pretty strange.  I mean, I've been doing it for a long time now, but I still don't really get it.  It's nice to snuggle with someone else, but you can snuggle anywhere.  And occasionally it's nice to get busy with someone else, if you know what I mean, but we all know you don't always need a bed for that.  Unless you are really boring.  And you can certainly get busy in a twin bed or a bed that doesn't belong to you.  Let's face it:  most of the time beds are just for sleeping.  And if what you're mostly doing is sleeping, why share?  It's not like we're cavepeople who have to huddle together for warmth.  

When we started sharing a bed, around a hundred years ago, my husband accused me of angling. Or you could call it diagonal-ing, if that is a word, because throughout the course of the night I would shimmy my legs over to his side of the bed, but my head and torso would stay on my side. I turned myself into a human forward-slash.  I argued that my feet were, naturally, seeking the warmest spot they could find, and that was as close to him as possible.  When he sleeps my husband becomes the man-equivalent of a charcoal briquette.  I haven't tried cooking anything on him yet, but I'm dying to give it a shot.  He'd have made a great caveman.

In addition to angling, over the years we've accused each other of cover-hogging (him), pillow theft (me), attempted smothering (me again) and ankle-kicking (both of us).  All of these antics go on in an enormous California King bed, the biggest money can buy.  Sometimes the sleeping goes smoothly and other nights we could probably use a referee, or maybe a plexi-glass sound and motion barrier dividing our bed down the middle.  At any rate, we've gotten used to these bed wars.  It's just who we are.

After Rex was born I started sleeping in the spare bed in the nursery, because it was easier on everyone, especially me.  For a time I was getting up a jillion times a night to feed Rex in the dark, so sharing a room meant less fumbling (and therefore less cursing) on my part.  And less screaming for the baby, which was good for all of us.  Now, three-plus months into it, I must admit that I've come to love sleeping alone.  The spare bed is cushy and cozy and I've tricked it out with really soft sheets, all the pillows I want and a stack of five assorted comforters to keep me toasty, since I no longer have my caveman.  There is no one to steal my covers or complain that my toenails are too sharp. My little twin bed is totally bitchin, and I never use that phrase. 

Sooner or later I'll have to go back to my own, enormous, shared bed. Lately Rex has become way too grunty for me to get any decent sleep when I'm in the same room with him, even if I wear earplugs and put the pillow over my head.  What's more, now I'm convinced he can smell me sleeping across the nursery and is waking up more than he needs to, both for the pleasure of my company and for a nice slug of warm milk.  Really, who wouldn't?  

One of these days I'll have to say goodbye to my little paradise for good.  As an experiment, last night around 3 am, after feeding Rex, instead of staying in the nursery I went stepped back into the master bedroom. It felt newish, like a hotel; it was cooler than the nursery and smelled like grownups.  It was definitely a place I wanted to be.  And there was my old, familiar side of the bed, with my favorite plumpy pillows and down comforter, just inviting me to climb back in. I couldn't resist, so I went for it.  And it felt fantastic.  It was almost romantic, and for a few magic moments it was just me and the newness of my old bed.  

I rolled over, stretching, to the middle of the bed.  When my hand brushed against something warm I opened my eyes, momentarily disoriented, wondering what it was.  Then I let out a yelp, and almost peed my pants.  There was another person in bed with me!  There in the dark was my husband's head, at my eye level, and it totally freaked me out.  It honestly looked like there was a dummy in my bed.  Or a mannequin.  I suppose in the bliss of reunion with my big-girl bed, I forgot that this was a bed I shared with someone else, or maybe I've gotten too used to sleeping alone.  Either way, I hopped out of bed and hightailed it back to my bitchin little bed in the nursery, which was, thankfully, empty.  

Someday this bitchin little bed will be Rex's big-boy bed, and he will be a caveman-in-training. With all of his grunting, as adorable as it is, he's halfway there already.  And I've decided to very slowly reacquaint myself with my old, shared bed, a few hours at a time.  My husband and I will have to think up some new rules for our bed, but it seems like this is the dawn of a more peaceful era.  I have a hunch we'll be too tired to compete in our bed wars, won't care if the other person pulls off our comforter or kicks us in the balls.  The game has changed, and that's what happens when you have two children.  

Oops

No, I am not pregnant again.  That would definitely qualify as an oops, and it would be funny, but not funny ha-ha.  That would be funny like Armageddon is funny.

Every weekday I drop Veronica off at preschool, usually around 1:00, after lunch.  Rex gets to come along for the ride, because I'm not allowed to leave him home alone by himself, and also because everyone at preschool adores him.  We can't even make it past the office ladies without one of them wanting to hold him, kiss him and make believe he's their own for a few minutes while I take Veronica into Yellow Room to say goodbye.  I'm happy to relinquish him.  It's a good arrangement for everyone:  my arms get a break, the ladies get their fix, and best of all Rex avoids the visible fog of preschool germs that await once you pass the office. 

So the other day I said goodbye to Veronica with a relatively minor amount of drama, and made my escape towards the office and towards the front door of the school.  (Once I make it past the office I usually consider myself home-free; if Veronica happens to see me before that there's a new, more intense round of drama and an even more involved goodbye ritual, which could drag out for half an hour.  It's not fun.  It defeats the purpose of preschool.)  Anyway, I headed for the door and happened to notice the office manager holding a super cute baby.  I remarked to myself, "Wow, that's a really adorable baby," and as opened the door to leave, I realized that that was my baby.  

Oops.

Why, period

Today Veronica said 'why' fifty-seven times before noon.  Actually, probably before 11:00, because that's when my brain exploded and I could no longer hear anything.  It's amazing what you can tune out when you are a mother. 

"Mommy, is there always chicken inside of a chicken nugget?"  

"Yes, usually. As far as I know." (Oh please God let that be the end of it ...)

"Why."

I should say that she never asks why, she says why.  She demands why.  Often, she says why before I can even respond to her first question.  Sometimes I wonder if she's really listening to my response at all, or just waiting until she hears words and sounds come out of my mouth so she can press an automated button inside her mouth that says "Why."  It's her default.

One time we were driving in the car and neither of us had said anything for quite awhile. There was no topic of conversation on the table, no thread of a story left hanging in the air.  Just silence for several minutes, and then, out of the blue, from the back seat:  "Why." I had no idea what the hell she was talking about, but it didn't matter, because clearly she wanted an answer to something.  

So I made something up, which was fine with her, because she wasn't really listening to me anyway.  She had been asleep the whole time.  It's amazing what you can tune out when you are three.

  

Amish v. Homeless

I think I have hyperactive milk.  It's funny, because nothing else about me is that hyper - no one ever called me a spaz when I was a kid - but I suppose if I were to overachieve in any physical category as an adult, it would be in milk production.  Apparently when you have a lot of milk your baby can drink like two gallons in five minutes, which is I think the case with Rex.  He starts to scream, sputter and buck after eating for just a little while, and while I get the feeling that for him nursing is like sucking on a garden hose turned up full blast, I do wish he'd chill out a little.  I'm fairly sure he's getting enough to eat, because he's the size of an fully grown koala bear, but Veronica could be sneaking him extra food on the sly.  I have no idea.  

The only time Rex is a calm nurser is in the middle of the night.  Then he's all business and wants to go right back to sleep, which is great, except then I am awake, and I can't always fall back to sleep because I am thinking all kinds of crazy thoughts.  Yesterday I swear I saw a pack of Amish people in Golden Gate Park, so I was up all night thinking about the Amish and how they wound up in San Francisco.  Did they fly here?  No, because they're not into that sort of thing (too much electricity or machinery or something) ... so did they take the buggy carpool all the way from Ohio?  Did they ride horses?  Cows?  Jesus Christ, did they walk?  And what are they eating?  Are they hunting, farming, or quilting?  If so, where?  Is there such thing as an Amish vacation?  Last night I could clearly see there was no way I was getting back to sleep with these questions running through my head.

So I kept wondering.  Where are they staying?  Amish hotels?  In the park, in tents next to the homeless people?  Oh, my.  Then I started thinking about what the Amish would think of the homeless, and vice versa.  I've heard stories about the homeless near Stowe Lake hunting mallards for dinner, I assume by chucking beer bottles at their heads or stunning them with secondhand skunkweed smoke.  It probably sucks to be a duck in Golden Gate Park.  I have a feeling the Amish would skip the ducks all together, and go straight for hunting the bison. More challenging to be sure, but think of all the useful things you can make from a buffalo hide with a little elbow grease (which is, I've heard, an Amish trademark). 

Maybe the Amish are here teaching the homeless a thing or two about living off the land, in which case, maybe they can teach them a more humane way to hunt mallards.  Or teach them how to make beautiful patchwork quilts from newspapers and garbage bags.  Now there's a bright idea. 

He's a Yankee Doodle Boy

Last night Rex slapped me in the face.  I am not kidding.  

I'm used to this kind of behavior from Veronica, but since Rex is only three months old I was a little surprised.  Of course, it was an accident, but still.  There we were, getting all cozy in our chair, and SMACK!   Open-handed left hook to the cheek, expertly delivered.  I swear he wound up for it.  His hands have been mostly tightly clenched fists since birth, limited to flailing in the air and sticking in his mouth. I am taking this new developmental milestone, the 'baby bitch-slap', as a sign that he is growing up.

As further proof, this morning he used his new skill to yank at his boy bits, what Veronica refers to as his 'doodle and bag' (as in, "Mama, what's that bag thingy down there for?")  Apparently this new discovery thrilled him, because he got a huge smile on his face.  I haven't told my husband yet, but I'm sure he will be proud.  

And so it begins.  

The best little whorehouse in NOPA

There is a vacant storefront a block from our house, and I've decided I'm going to open a whorehouse.  Not the old-fashioned kind; there will be no whores working at my whorehouse.  I'm not the Madame type, and anyway, I really can't be managing prostitutes in my spare time.  Not my cup of tea.

The vacant space has three small rooms inside it, and that's what gave me the idea of calling it a whorehouse.  The similarities end there.  My business will really be a posh spa for mothers who need a place to crash for an hour or two, without distraction or interruption.  I can't tell you how many mothers I know who can't stay home when they have a sitter, because their kids will still be jumping all over them.  It's a major dilemma.

Each room in my whorehouse will have a comfy feather bed, a claw-foot bathtub and chocolate on demand.  No cell phones allowed. No men, either.  

My other pretend alone time

Mama's Little Love Letter has a cold, and no one, least of all Rex, is happy about it.  He's crabby and has been spewing greenish poop for a couple days, and since I hate it when that happens to me, I have tons of sympathy for him.  Plus, he's Mama's Little Love Letter to the World, which is my new nickname for him:  if I had the time to write the universe a love letter, it would be in the form of Rex.  He's adorable and soft and sweet and you just can't get enough of him.  Lately he's become quite a card.  

So the Laurel Hill Preschool Germ Express is running full steam ahead, and in her second week back at school Veronica has already gotten sick.  Now that she's better, we have the answer to her question, "Mommy, where does my cold go when I get over it?"  Clearly, like her old clothes and hand-me-down toys, it goes to her baby brother.  And I'm sure this is not the last time.  

The good news is that, in his funky state, Rex has really gotten into riding in the double stroller. It actually makes him chortle.  The stroller is one of those double-decker jobs where the big kid rides on top, and the little kid gets tucked underneath where he still has a view, albeit only that of people's knees and small dogs.  It's really cool.  Veronica has named it Strolley. If you buy it new, the stroller costs about a zillion dollars, but we somehow found one used and in good shape. It's bright orange and quite fancy.  My husband likes it because it's easy to steer and has a small turning radius, the obvious things a guy would like.  I like it because both kids are self-contained in one place, and since both seats face forward, when I'm pushing it I can't see either one of them.  In fact, I can barely hear them.  It's like I'm out for a walk by myself.

Taking a late-afternoon walk with the kids in Strolley has become, like my morning shower, one of Mommy's pretend-alone zones.  I figure if I can string enough of these pretend-alone situations together, I'll be able to go an entire day without children, at least in theory.  And yesterday I discovered that Strolley comes with a bonus: if I strap the stroller leash to my wrist, I can give the stroller a push, let go of the handle and the whole thing rides out in front of me for a couple of paces.  That's when I really get happy - I am walking, unfettered, in the park!  No kids!  No whining! Just little old me.  It's paradise, and even if it's just for a few seconds, I'll take what I can get.  

I am a bad, bad mommy (apparently)

It's happened, and it has happened much earlier than I thought it would.  

This morning Veronica yelled in my face, "You are a bad, bad mommy!  I don't want you to be my mommy!"  

I don't remember what she was mad about.  I think it was because I wouldn't let her in the shower with me, even though it is a weekday and the rule is No Showering With Mommy Until the Weekend, but I can't be sure if that's what sent her into hysterics.  Maybe it was just because.  Because she is three-and-a-half, because she is a girl and we are prone to outbursts, because, because, because, BECAUSE.  Maybe all girls say this to their mothers.  But really, at this age?  

It actually didn't bother me when she said it, and it was all I could do not to laugh out loud. Most of the things she says to me are hilarious; this was no exception, and I certainly am not a bad mommy.  (Usually I am a good mommy, and sometimes I am just an average-to-middling mommy, but it is rare that I am truly a bad mommy.)  I didn't take it personally.  But as she said it I did feel sorry for her, terrible really, because she was obviously in the throes of some kind of preschooler angst that was very real to her.  She is already, at her age, a consummate drama queen, the biggest actress.  Her world mostly consists of dancing, singing, flailing about and very loud sighing, punctuated by the frequent, "I never have any (fill in the blank)" or "You always do (fill in the blank) to me".  She is, it seems, faced with injustice at every turn.

So I hugged her, and said it was ok for her to say I'm a bad mommy, because it was.  It was fine.  So she wiggled and really cried for a bit and fake cried for a lot longer, and finally she decided to move on.  I left her with her father and sped off to the shower before she could call me anything else, something much worse, like a bad cook or a crappy artist, things I am actually insecure about.  I wondered what else she could possibly call me as she got older.  And as I heard her begin the morning struggle with my husband over getting dressed, she yelled, "Mommy!  You are a Mad Scientist!"  I laughed.  That I can handle.

Baby Catnip

It is around 3 am, and Rex is rolling around on his changing table like a kitten in catnip.  I don't know what it is about his changing table that makes him so crazy happy.  Day or night, it doesn't matter.  It's almost to the point where I don't want to change him on the table at night because it will rile him up, but I don't want to get poop on the bed or the crib.  One of these days he'll stop pooping at night.  Right?

So I'm trying to change him, and I discover that I really, really want a diet Coke, with ice. Yum.  Strange middle-of-the-night craving, especially when I'm not even thirsty.  When I was pregnant with Veronica I ate bananas in the middle of the night, and with Rex, bowls of cereal.  Since we are absolutely not having any more children, maybe the diet Coke thing is nature's way of saying I can stop being so nutritious and live a little - go ahead and toss back a nice artificially-flavored, tooth-staining caffeinated beverage.  

Since I have no diet Coke, I think about how healthy I've been while pregnant with and nursing children.  I've really been an ascetic, a nutritional saint, and I'm looking forward to the day Rex is weaned so I can go hog wild.  As I said, there will be no more pitter-patter of little feet around our house after Rex, and I'm anticipating my diet will go totally to shit.  I feel like I've earned it.  So the trick now will be to make sure I don't get pregnant again, and since I seem to get knocked up the minute I smell cupcakes or look at a wall calendar of cuddly kittens, we'll be taking drastic measures.

All that Glitters

There is glitter all over our house.  It's even in the baby's diaper.  I am surprised it could survive in such a nuclear environment, but there it was, stuck to his left cheek.  Amazing.  Cary has declared war on glitter and has vacuumed at least three times today, but still, it's everywhere. Secretly, I love the glitter, because if I squint it feels like I am living in Fairyland, and since these days I am walking around with my eyes half open anyway, it's just perfect.

I'd rather be running through the sprinkler

I am getting tired of resting.  I'm sick of having to lay down every time I have a free moment, sick of having to catch up on my sleep.  I especially hate going to bed at 7:00 pm when I can see daylight through the cracks of my shades and can hear the neighbor kids running through their sprinkler, enjoying the last moments of sunshine.  I love this time of day and it seems like a huge waste, a crime even, to be laying in bed.  Once I am actually asleep this does not bother me, and it certainly helps to be rested when both of my kids wake up at 5:45 am.  But still.  I'd much rather spending time with my husband, or almost anything else, than laying down.  

My pretend alone time

It's 6:30 on Friday morning, and both Veronica and Rex are in the bathroom with me.  All three of us are naked. I am showering, and the rule is that no kids are allowed in the actual shower with me unless it's a weekend.  I don't know where that rule came from other than it will maximize the days I can shower alone, and anyway it's my right as a parent to make up arbitrary rules.  It's what we do. The other rule is that Veronica may not touch Rex.  He's laying happily on a stack of blankets on the bathroom floor, staring at his left hand, which he recently discovered, but since he can't use it yet to defend himself against his sister we have the rule. The rule is important since I am on one side of the shower glass and my kids are on the other, and without me it's frontier justice out there.  

I am surprised that Veronica hasn't tried to touch Rex yet.  She absolutely loves him and wants to touch him day and night all over his body - kiss him, lick him, contort him, generally mess with him.  To her, he's a living doll, a cooing little boy toy.  But then Rex starts to scream for some reason, so I ask Veronica to find some toys for him.  I feel a little guilty asking her to be my errand girl, but she loves to help.  I am learning that big sisters can be quite helpful, and Veronica is pretty sophisticated.  She scampers, totally nude, out of the room and comes back with a potato masher, her cup of milk, and one of Rex's baby toys.  Something for everyone.

I stay in the shower as long as I can until it becomes clear I need to get out.  There is whining and fussing on the other side of the glass, which only bothers me because it's interrupted my pretend alone time.  I leave the water running, because Rex likes it and it usually buys me an extra five minutes to moisturize.  (Totally worth the water bill if you ask me.)  As I step out of the shower, my daughter looks at me and loudly says, "You have big boobitty breasts.  I call them boobitty because they flop around. Flop, flop, FLOP!"  Despite myself, I laugh out loud. She starts to laugh too and skips out of the room, shouting the whole way.  I can't wait until she has kids one day, and then we will see who is laughing.

I look down at Rex, and he's no longer fussing.  He's trying to put the potato masher into his mouth with his left hand.  

It's all going south

About a month ago, in the middle of a night feeding I made up a nickname for Rex:  G.L.B., short for Greedy Little Bastard.  Later that week I amended it to G.L.F., or Gassy Little Fucker.  While he is still both greedy and gassy, he has become so adorable and good-natured I can barely stand it, so I've decided G.L.B. really stands for Good Little Boy.  

So it's midnight, and I've just fed Rex, and my Good Little Boy has fallen asleep in his crib with his left index finger in his mouth.  It's really cute, and also very functional - I think he might believe I am still feeding him, because it looks like his index finger is just about the same circumference as one of my nipples.  His finger is definitely longer, at least I hope it is, but since he has been eating with the unrelenting suck of a Moray eel for nearly three months you never know.  Most of my anatomy, and specifically the two parts that feed my son, are going south. They are actually getting stretched.

My friend Carol has also had two children, and she is forever making up hilarious descriptions for what happens to your body.  When I was pregnant she told me that from the side, I looked like a filing cabinet with the middle drawer pulled all the way out.  Totally accurate. And now she says her body shape is not that of a pear, or an apple, but of a clogged straw: skinny on the top and bottom, with a thick bulge in the middle.  I for one think she looks fabulous; way more gorgeous than anyone can possibly look after having two kids.  

As I climb back into bed I start thinking about what my body shape is now, and I decide that what I most resemble is the Seattle Space Needle.  I have a little head on top, a skinny lower body stretching below, with two huge boobs in the middle that are visible for miles in all directions.  Instead of an observation deck I have an observation rack, and my rack is heading south at the same pace as the Space Needle observation deck descends. It's not pretty.  After Rex is weaned I will objectively assess the collateral damage to my figure, but for now, my bod belongs to the G.L.B.

A light at the end of the swaddle

I have decided not to swaddle Rex anymore.  As I've said, he's grown too big for it really, and swaddling him is like wrapping an Ace bandage around a seal - difficult, dangerous and not really that effective.  My friend Tricia never swaddled either of her kids and they are champion sleepers, so I figure I'll chance it and see how it goes.  And actually, it goes fine.  Now all I hear at night is the slurping, sucking sound of his fingers in his mouth, which is ok by me.  There's very little grunting, and now he's only getting up twice to eat.  I'll take it.

The trick is to get him to sleep until at least 6 am, which is when Veronica gets up. Actually, because my husband and I are wicked, shameless people, she stays in bed until 6:15 because we have set her clock fifteen minutes behind.  She is learning how to tell time but hasn't yet started to compare her clock with the clocks in the rest of the house, so we're in the clear for now.  Once she figures it out we are going to catch hell, because she is quite a piece of work and knows exactly how to torture us.  I'm not looking forward to it.

I'm pretty sure my daughter is a genius.  This is not because I am a genius (even though clearly I am) or because she is my daughter and I am biased.  It's really because of the questions she asks, things like, "Mommy, does everything in the world have seams?" or "Mommy, if you have two broken legs, do you have to hold your cane in the middle?"  These are things that I have never thought of, but they are really quite logical.  With her wonderfully creative brain, Veronica has also asked if Rex can poop out his belly button.  All kids are fascinated with poop, so I'll give her that question as a freebie. Anyway, if he tried, Rex probably could poop out of his belly button.  With very little effort.

Veronica's favorite breakfast game is to ask us to tell her stories about thunderstorms.  My husband and I are pretty sick of this game.  She is very, very specific about what we are to tell her, and there is usually no talk about the thunderstorm other than while the story is taking place, there is a thunderstorm outside.  And the characters, usually my husband or I when we were little, must absolutely be inside the house during the story.  (Being inside the garage or basement is apparently allowed.)  If we don't tell the story exactly the way she wants it, we get a stern reprimand, because my genius daughter is bossy.  We're both a little afraid of her, actually.  And after each story is finished, she will ask, "Can you tell me an even longer story about that?"  It's the kiss of death.  You don't want to hear that question first thing in the morning.

The stories are never totally true, but it doesn't matter.  The funniest stories involve my two childhood cats who tortured my father on a daily basis with their antics, like mixing up the dark and light laundry or sprinting across him as he napped on the couch.  Apocryphal, but still hilarious to Veronica.  Of all of us, my mom is the best storyteller because she never gets tired of the game, and she eventually gets to go home to a peaceful, child-free breakfast.  Her stories involve things like digging to China and not following the rules in the library, fun things that Veronica can do after Nana leaves.  

So it's now 5:45 am.  Rex is rumbling around in his crib, waking up, and Veronica is sweetly singing from her bed, something about rainbows and fire hydrants.  And I can't wait until my son can tell time, because then we can set his clock fifteen minutes behind, too.  Maybe even thirty.  Of course by then Veronica will be old enough to know better, so we'll have to come up with a new ruse to keep her in bed until six.  Something about a thunderstorm.