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.