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A few of our sleep problems have finally settled down, I am happy to report, and you must be happy to read it too, because I’m sure there’s nothing more crucial to your enjoyment of this blog than the knowledge that your hostess’ children are now sleeping better.

I’m perhaps most happy about the fact that my little ones have been persuaded to keep their clothes on until morning’s first light.  We reached a climax of insanity on this issue on the morning that the smell from their room hit me before I’d even opened the door.  I took a deep breath and crossed the entrance, only to find that the boy had removed his diaper at some point because of the terrible discomfort from having filled it earlier.

Which would be bad enough, but not only had he removed the offending diaper, he’d also attempted to remove the offending substance by means of his fingers (which he then wiped all over his and his sister’s bedding) and the carpet.  Yes, the boy scooted.  Like a cat. With blocked anal glands.

I bribed them with jelly beans, oh yes I did go there, and now they (for the most part) keep their pants on until I’ve come in, a fact for which I thank the universe every day.

Nap time, aye, there’s another story.  They both still depend on naps whether they want to admit it or not; so after various machinations, ploys, plots, maneuvers, feints and deceptions I lit upon the idea of having the boy sleep in my bed during nap time.

I have never been one to have children sleep with me.  I need alone time.  I crave privacy.  And I sleep erratically enough on my own that having a small squirmy body in bed with me on a regular basis would not work.

But I gave it a try, fearing failure as this is the boy who regardless of how tired he is still needs a good twenty-minute period to run himself out in his room every night.  Yes, he runs.  At full tilt.  As his sister’s eyes droop.  Then typically he runs himself smack into a wall, which puts him right out.

Sitting a floor below listening to the ceiling rattle from his footsteps, I choose to believe that he’s dropped from exhaustion and not a head injury.  Please don’t correct my assumption.

So it was with extreme trepidation that I brought him into my bedroom for naps.  I’ve worked hard both on cleaning and arranging my room into an oasis away from the stress and chaos of children, and the last thing I wanted was to turn this diminuitive whirlwind free in it.  Instead, I laid down with him for his nap, my intention to get him settled before slipping away to business of my own.

But he wanted to talk.  Then he wanted songs.  I obliged, beguiled by the blue of his eyes and the ridiculous length of his black lashes.  Finally his eyes went glassy.  “Do you want to hold my hand as you fall asleep?” I asked.

“No!” he said instantly.  It’s his answer to everything, including “Do you want to go to the park?” and “Would you like a popsicle?”  But a scant minute later he grabbed my fingers.  “Ok, I we-ill.”

We held hands as he drifted off, and of course I drifted off too.  There’s no amount of sleep in the universe which will make up for all the sleep I’ve missed due to children, work and worry; could there be any better time to catch up on few minutes of it than while my son holds my hand?