Temperamental Parenting

My second born, my sweet little John Paul Francis, he just has the most wonderful cheeks. Top and bottom (too much? Probably. But it was 77 degrees here today and, as they say, sun's out, bun's out.)

He's my snuggler, the child ever in search of comforting arms and soothing words and a soft lap to land on. He also lets me kiss those soft cheeks over and over again, never once pushing me away or fighting the snuggle. He's never done hugging; he never pulls away first.

Not coincidentally, he was also my only "overdue" baby, preferring to hang out for an entire
month longer than his 37 week big brother and a good 3 weeks past his 38 week old little sis.

I'm telling you, this kid is devoted to me.

It's taken me a few years to come to appreciate how deep his little soul is. He thinks about crazy things, and hours later he's still thinking about them, reflecting on joys and ruminating on perceived injustices alike. I can't parent him the same way I parent the other two, which shouldn't be surprising but somehow is, anyway. I have a word for him now though: melancholic. I'll explain later.

It's surprising that each kid requires an entirely unique set of parenting parameters within which to operate, to some extent.

It's surprising to me that my kids don't think and act like I do. Never more so than, say, when I'm frantically herding sleep drunken cats out the door for preschool pickup (late! again!) and somebody is distraught because he didn't get to select his preferred pair of superhero briefs and oh the injustice of somebody else selecting and then helping you into your underwear.

(Honestly, when I write it out like that, it does seem rather troubling.)

And if I were the thinking type, I'd plan ahead to cut my nap time tap tapping short a good 10 minutes early each afternoon rather than burning it down to the wire, choleric style, and then expecting everyone else to jump when I bark "go!"

Yes, that's exactly what I'd do. I'd note my melancholic son's tendency to wake up slow and snuggly and in need of some time to ponder and recalibrate to the waking world, and I'd gently rouse him and rub his little back, waiting patiently for his conscious brain to come back online while not at all thinking about the load of laundry I could be finishing or the dishwasher I could be loading or the emails I could be sending. Then we'd calmly collect his sister from her nursery, process to the minivan in an orderly fashion, and drive at or near the speed limit all the way across town to collect our 4th musketeer.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe after a good night's sleep and some careful reflection on the children I've actually been entrusted with and not the tiny clones of me that I was expecting to receive...maybe then I can manage a more humane afternoon routine.

I'm really glad they're all so different, even if it is at times completely confounding. And I'm dying to see what the latest addition's makeup will have to offer. So far we have, as near as I can tell, a choleric sanguine who is an impossible 100% extroverted, a mild mannered melancholic introvert, and a phlegmatic sanguine who seems fairly ambidextrous in terms of social preference. Happy in her room alone, happy in a crowd.

I love figuring out what each of my kids "are," temperamentally, and trying to learn ways to better engage them through understanding their unique set of strengths and weaknesses. My choleric sanguine eldest son is my biggest challenge by a long shot, and mostly because his need for human interaction is very literally limitless.

I explained to him the concept of introversion versus extroversion a couple months ago in language a 4 year old could appreciate, and he actually started to cry when I expounded on the traits of an introvert. Tears. I guess of disappointment? Disbelief that anyone could or would need downtime? (mommy raises hand to the ceiling)

Whatever the case, that moment crystalized for me the stark contrast between us, and the lifelong struggle I'll be engaged with (at least while he's under our roof) trying to balance my sanity, which is tenuous in the best of times, with his constant craving for companionship. God was so smart to put us together; I can't think of another relationship that has required more from me in terms of giving of self. Truly. And the days I won't give? Our worst. Hands down.

So all this long winded soliloquizing to say: read this book. I'm not much for parenting books because they all tend to contradict each other, know what I mean? But this isn't really a parenting book. It's more like a code cracking manual, or an instruction booklet (but the good kind, not the IKEA kind).

And if you happen to look up in disbelief at your polar opposite offspring sitting across from you at the breakfast table in a sudden rush of understanding when you're finished...well, you're welcome.

John Paul II, We Love You!

Thanks to Simcha I didn't miss my second born's namesake feast day, and we even cued her handy playlist for their lunchtime enjoyment/homeschooling lesson for the day week. Joey solemnly proclaimed that he 'loved this song, Mommy' while listening to Bl. JPII intone the Pater Noster in Basilica San Pietro during a papal mass all those years ago. He did not, however, recognize the church in question as St. Peter's, a sorrow that is breaking his pregnant mama's heart. Rome is fading fast from his 3-year-old mind, and the days that he asks me to teach him Italian words are fewer and farther between. I wonder if he'll remember much of anything from our time there...

I'm thinking about getting crazy and making JPII's favorite dessert for us to feast upon tonight, except for the tiny detail that I don't like baking and Dave will be at work until 10 pm. Perhaps I'll just spread butter and honey on something and call it Polish.

Taking a page out of Colleen's blog, please enjoy these gratuitous pictures of my John Paul dressed as JPII, and of both my boys 'meeting' our hero in Rome.

Maximilian Kolbe and John Paul, rocking (but somehow, losing) last year's All Saints Day costume contest.

Joey and Bl. JPII arriving at Fiumincino before the beatification. 

Nothing creepy about this ...

Joey is escorted by some San Pietrini ushers to touch the (newly installed) tomb of Bl. JPII the day after his beatification.

And John Paul touching the same tomb one year later. God is good.

Blessed JPII, pray for us!

(Thank you for all your prayers for the family I wrote about yesterday. Please keep them coming as they lay their little one to rest tomorrow.)

To Market to Market

Where I probably could buy a fresh pig. But I'm not quite there yet, Italy.

One of the great blessings of living in a country where people live a little closer to the land is that even in a city of several million people like Rome, I still have access to some of the freshest meat and produce I've ever seen.

I've mentioned before that Italy has stricter laws as far as GMO and pesticides are concerned, (though my favorite butcher thinks nothing of dropping the cherry from his cigarette into his case of sausages and skinned rabbits and then carefully plucking it out and wiping clean the meat. Shudder.) so things that I may have struggled to fit into our grocery budget back home are simply commonplace here.

The tiniest little strawberries, called 'fragolini:' Molto piccolo e molto dolce.

Yesterday I bought the bulk of our meat and veggies for the week at the marcato at the base of our apartment building. I spent about 40 Euros (roughly $50), and I came home with all this:

Meat is by far the most expensive ingredient here, so most weeks I will buy 1 (one!) chicken breast and have it filleted into thin slices, and the result is what you see above: an entire IKEA container filled with mini 'chicken breasts' that I can stretch into 3 meals. This week that little box 'o chicken will yield chicken and pineapple fried rice, gluten-free chicken parmesan, and probably something involving the magical packet of Ortega taco seasoning gifted to me by a very sweet fellow ex-pat whose husband makes frequent returns to the US. And who shares my affinity for all things 'Messicano,' as they say here.

We do have at least 2 vegetarian meals per week, not because we don't like meat, but because we can't afford to have it here every day! This bothered me at first where the boys were concerned, since I don't want to deprive them of the nutrients and protein they need in order to grow, but once I realized they were eating a wide variety of fruits and vegetables here and were having either beans or eggs or some other protein-dense food on a daily basis, I relaxed a little. Plus, chain-smoking aside, Italians seem a lot healthier than Americans, from the cradle to the grave, a reality which, despite the massive amounts of pasta I see consumed, has to harken back to their native cuisine.

(An aside. According to an Italian acquaintence who is very slim (effortlessly so) and very typical in her habits, I am assured, Italians do not eat pasta in the evening unless it is a special event, like a holiday or a big family dinner. They limit their carb consumption in the afternoon and evening, and it would seem that this has a hugely positive impact on their bodies being efficient in processing so.many.carbs. Plus, she pointed out, they have been eating this way for centuries, and therefore their bodies are accustomed to doing so. She theorizes that perhaps American women's bodies are not.)

Another huge help I've discovered, thanks to my sweet friend Susanna, who is herself a transplant to Rome (from the Italian island of Sardinia. Swoon) via CNA - her husband works with Dave and produces EWTN's Vaticano, a weekly news show from the Vatican, is Despar's home delivery service. Despar is a German grocery chain whose selection of international foods is fairly impressive, and whose willingness to deliver cases and cases of water and heavy cleaning supplies is magical.

For an additional 5 Euro on top of my grocery bill (about $7.50), I can have a month's worth of water delivered to our house. Delivered as in driven to our building, loaded on the elevator, and unloaded in my front foyer. Boom.

Like Christmas, only wetter.

My pedestrian days of water lugging are behind me.

So the grocery shopping breaks down like this: every 2 days or so, a trip to the fresh market, where we buy all of our meat, most of our produce, and a good chunk of our eggs and dairy. And the occasional scarf or piece of cheap jewelry or knicknack from the dollar/Euro bins at the end. Because Mommy has a problem.

About twice per week, I go to Todi's, the local discount grocer around the block. There I buy diapers, (5 Euro for a 20 pack. Best price I've seen in the city which still guarantees the diapers will perform their desired function.) yogurt, frozen veggies, canned goods, and some cleaning supplies/trashbags.

Once per month I visit Despar and import our drinking water, and usually end up with unplanned vino purchases and the stray jar of Nutella, because damn their prices are good. And Nutella is hard to quit.

Ocasionally I stray from this pattern if we're travelling or if we ever (okay, inevitably) need something on a Sunday afternoon, when everything is closed. Then I have to hoof it about 1.5 miles west to Simply, which is a rather largish and nice-ish grocery store featuring a good mix of Italian and international foods.

There you have it, folks. All the stuff you didn't know you didn't care to know about grocery shopping in a foreign country.

Oh yeah, and these guys. Not super helpful, but usually very entertaining.

This is a clear popsicle. Which is a miracle. Also, they wanted to Lady and the Tramp it. Their request, not mine.

Boy oh Boy

Stepping back from yesterday's craziness (calling all trolls, come hang out in my commbox) for a little good 'ol fashioned mommyblogging, courtesy of sweet and crafty Sheena at Bean in Love, who actually asked for obnoxiously kid-centered posts of progeny.

Twist my arm.

Yes, that arm. The monstrous post-partum mommy arm flapping in the bottom right-hand corner of the frame.

 When John Paul was born, we were all but convinced he was a 'she,' both because the pregnancy was so different from Joey's, and because we had our girl name settled oh, about 9 months earlier than our boy name. But out he popped, and we are so glad to have two little man cubs only 19 months apart.

They are already best friends,

though Joey is for sure the Alpha Wolf. Except that JP is only trailing by 7 lbs these days, so better watch your back, big brother.

Joey is the proverbial eldest child: bossy, confidant, opinionated, a little self-centered, smart, and really, really stubborn. In other words, he's the male version of me.

John Paul is our sweet and snuggly guy...but he can scream. Like noises from another planet. Particularly during the Eucharistic Consecration. Or if ever we happen to be tagging along when Dave is filming an interview or having a conversation with somebody famous and/or important. John Paul does not have a 'discrete' setting. Also, his screams. Oh Lord, poor Joey is still scarred from the Great CIO-fest of Spring 2013, (wait, that's now, actually. But it's been a great past 2 weeks! So I think we won.) when we locked him in a marble-floored bedroom with his younger brother and 'sleep trained' them both to the tune of JP's ungodly shriekings ringing off the acoustically perfect floors.

Don't be fooled by this face.

My ears still bleed from time to time.

They look alike, but they look like their own little persons, as well. Joey is skinner and has a longer face (and a much fiercer scowl) where JP's honest and open round face/eyes assure me he will never be able to tell me a lie. Or so I hope.

We're so in love with these little boys.

And so is the entire city of Rome, it turns out.

My Birthday Boy

Hanging out over at Hallie's today for a bit of a marital tune-up, which you'd best believe I've only got worked out on paper so far. Work in progress, this little wifey here.

Also, we are celebrating with Italian exuberance the first birthday of our sweet little man John Paul Francis, little-brother-turned-Pope-bait-extraordinaire.

For anyone who does birth chapter books in lieu of simple birth stories, please feel free to click here, here, here, and here...punch me now or punch me later. What can I say? Postpartum makes me obnoxious.

John Paul, you little sweetheart, you bring us so much joy. Even though this was your birth song. And even though you've only been sleeping through the night for 2 weeks. I know you just wanted to give us the benefit of spending as many hours as humanly possible per day with you. And this is the song that we've always sung during our midnight meetups.

Keep getting cuter, you little chunk of baby love.

xoxo,

Mommy.

7 Quick Takes from a Crazy, Crazy Week

Alternate title: 7 places my kid's face has been on the news throughout the world. Too obnoxious? Yeah, me too.

1. But obviously this was the highlight of our little family's week, followed by write ups here and here, a phone interview here (don't read the comments, you might have a rage-induced stroke), a screenshot here and a shout out from my favoritest boss in the world here. Plus a couple of filmed broadcasts via EWTN and the Italian national news channel (but I will just send those directly to you, Mom, okay?) As for the other million or so more-than-usual-visitors who made their way to my humble corner of the internet this week: thank you! I'm sorry most of what I write is not quite so exciting, and I'm also sorry for the occasional curse word (happy, Dave?) which sneaks its way into my riveting sleep-training rants. Speaking of...

2. JP, despite his newfound celebrity, is taking it all in stride, still staunchly refusing to sleep in the daylight hours unless strapped to my chest via the Ergo-maybe-I-can-pee-while-wearing...nope-Baby carrier, though he is putting in a more acceptable 9 hours overnight. At least that's what the non-earplugged members of the household tell me.

3. Last night was so emotional. After being fully immersed for weeks in Vatican biznez, I wasn't sure I'd have a tear left to spare once Papa finally bid us all adieu. But the moment his helicopter bounced on its hydraulic helicopter wheels (technically speaking) and made off for the setting Roman sunset, I lost my composure. Luckily, a helpful and not at all creepy or disrespectful Czech cameraman was there to hand me a tissue stick his giant ass video camera in my face and proceed to film for 90 or 120 very painful and snot saturated seconds. I thought if I avoided eye contact he would cease and desist, but barring results via that tactic, I opted for plan B and blew my nose repeatedly into John Paul's fleece hoodie while studying the back of his neck.

4. I am wondering if I am doing something wrong by not responding to every single comment I get? I am super awkward in real life, I promise, and I regularly entertain thoughts like 'If I make the first phone call to arrange this playdate between our kids, does that make me seem desperate?' and 'I hope he understood that my nervous winking thing wasn't so much a come on as it was a facial tick.' So sometimes I just don't know what to say to a comment besides, 'hey, thank you so much, I can't believe you took the time to read something that I wrote AND react to it.' But that is precisely my sentiment each and every time. Seriously, comments...they make my life. Like a sale at Banana Republic + a recently-deposited paycheck in the bank. That's how good they make me feel.

(Except when they're coming from you, you Polish troll. You know who you are. And you can crawl back into your pirogi-lined troll hole.)

5. Is now a good time to admit that based largely upon recommendations from some of my most trusted arts and culture advisers, I have opted to pay $2 per episode to download and consume episodes of the Bachelor on iTunes? God bless America, land that I miss...

6. Needless to say, I'll be bringing you lots more original (though perhaps not necessarily riveting or well-written) content from Rome as the Papal Conclave gets underway. I don't claim to be much of a theologian, having completed approximately 1/4 of my theology MA (sorry, mom and dad...but hey, grandkids!), but I know enough to communicate to you fine people the basic gist of what is happening in this historic time for the Roman Catholic Church, and I couldn't be more blessed to be here in the heart of it all, so come back for updates. And advice on where to buy tequila in Italy and the very best off-brand foreign diapers.

Not a bad view of a not-bad view.

7. Jen, thanks for the shout out. Now I've had 2 Catholic celebrity encounters this week.

A Kiss Goodbye

'When I see you, I see the Church is alive.'
-Pope Benedict XVI

We made the trek to St. Peter's Square early this morning to line up with the crowds of faithful and curious onlookers hoping to catch a glimpse of Papa on his last full day in the Fisherman's office.

We were not disappointed.

We spent 3 hours fighting through pressing crowds and stalwartly holding our position against the barricade, hoping against hope to catch a glimpse of our beloved Holy Father,
And then this happened.

And then this.

My son, the Pope, the Popemobile. Dreams do come true.

Dear Pope Benedict, as I was able to say to you this morning, however inelegantly, when I looked into your eyes after my youngest son, John Paul, was handed back into my arms, thank you.

The Church is, indeed, alive.

Cry Me Out

I am awfully afraid of sleep training. In my past life as an idiot without any children, I judged many a parent in my heart for their seeming incompetence/obsession with their children's sleep habits, and I even went so far as to make some vom vom vomitous predictions while pregnant (yes, you heard me, pregnant, not even with a child in my freaking arms yet) about which 'method' we would 'do' with our extra special offspring. Slap me. Slap me across my damn face.

Anywho, JP the monster baby is screaming his 10-months-old-today head off in the other bedroom right now, because I had the audacity to hope (see what I did there? You're welcome) that he might go to sleep without being nursed into unconscious bliss, then tentatively and oh-so-gingerly transferred onto a fluffy pillow of dreams and unicorns, where he would lightly slumber whilst the entire rest of the household would tiptoe around and scream silent curses at each other for the remainder of the evening should anyone have the misfortune to close a cabinet door too enthusiastically. End scene.

I can't for the life of me figure out why this kid doesn't sleep.

Admittedly, we were a tad more schedule-driven with Joey. in face, we did Babywise fairly hardcore, and feedings, nappings, and the like were all more or less fixed in place. With John Paul...I feel like we've been in emergency triage for his entire life. From ca-razy post-partum depression to a surgery at 6 months old to our recent move to Italy, we've always had 'something' major going on, pressing down, a foot crushing our throats and demanding we fix our attention elsewhere. But now, it's time.

John Paul, you're a big strapping 10 month old, and I can't nurse you to sleep twice a day and wake up 1-4 times per night to top up your gas tank anymore. I also can't handle not ever knowing, on a given day, if you're going to nap. Not when, but if. I have become my formerly childless self's worst nightmare.

Pass me a drink.

Last night was our first official 'cry it out' venture in Italy. It was more or less successful, if by successful you mean 3+ hours of varied intensity of bloodcurdling screams, punctuated by deep philosophical pillow talk peppered with 'will he need counseling?' and 'does this seem like something the neighbors might call the cops for?' queries. Riveting stuff, I know.

The upshot is that he did, technically, cry it out to put his sad self to bed, and he didn't nurse last night....though he did get a conciliatory bottle of actual formula around 3 am from Daddy dearest, which seemed to satiate him until the godly hour of 7 am.

So why do I feel so awful|?

I don't know, maybe it's the prolonged sleep deprivation, maybe it's the lingering uncertainty over reading too many entries at BabyCenter.com, or maybe it's just the straight up wicked hormonal cocktail that floods mah brain courtesy of my endocrine system whenever his crying sessions begin.

Whatever the case may be, I hate hate hate hearing my babies cry. And I hate being so sleep deprived I press the same button in our building's elevator 5 times before Dave nudges me and points out that I'm pressing the floor we're already on. Awesome.

The moral of this story is, we're on night two of cry it the frick out, and God help us if he wakes soon...

Little Miracles

We have survived our first major-ish parenting moment as of 9:45 this morning. Sweet John Paul came through his surgery with flying colors, and proceeded to come out of anesthesia smiling and cooing at the astounded attending nurses. When we were finally allowed into the recovery room to hold and nurse him, he was perched on a nurses' hip batting at the ID cards hung round her neck and sucking on his paci like nothing had happened.

My children are both tougher than I am.

We have been praying for half a year for this morning, and while it wasn't a majorly invasive procedure, it was still surgery, there was still a 2 hour chunk of time where he was anesthetized and intubated, and he was still treated to a rocking epidural (a caudal block, more precisely) that was at least as good as mommy's birth day cocktail. (Though from the looks of his charmed recovery, it may have been even better.)

Yesterday after Mass, we approached Father to ask for a blessing and prayers for healing. He one-uped us by ushering us into the sacristy and proceeded to perform the Anointing of the Sick (also called Extreme Unction), which was a beautiful and unexpected gift. It is the one Sacrament I'd never witnessed, and it was quick, profound, and powerfully reminiscent of his Baptism just a few months earlier. God is so good, even when His answers aren't ours.

This afternoon while JP slept off his buzz, Dave and I were remarking on how all our prayers of petition and intentions for his healing were not answered the way we were hoping (miraculous intervention) but were realized instead through medicine. And that is still a miracle.

Sitting in the bright, beautiful waiting room of Rocky Mountain Children's Hospital and interacting with the kindest, most professional medical staff, we were so grateful. Grateful for a job that provides insurance coverage to be able to seek the best treatment, grateful for living in a big city with cutting edge facilities and incredible doctors, grateful for living in a country where the very best medicine is being practiced, and where access is truly available to anyone who needs it (and don't let anyone tell you otherwise - we have enough doctors and nurses in the family to know that this is the reality. No one is turned away. Even to the hospital's detriment.)

So I guess I'm just grateful; grateful for a little man who is sleeping in the next room over, all stitched up and slightly bruised, but headed towards a full recovery, and grateful for our friends and family.

I'm also grateful for a wonderful husband who held my hand, bought me more coffee than was wise this morning, and lightened the mood by bringing me into the 21st century this afternoon via Youtube. I don't know what was more disturbing, the song itself or the reality that I was somehow wholly ignorant of a phenomenon which had commanded more than 500 million views.

It turns out going to be before 9 pm has real consequences people.

A Glorious Case of the Mondays

It's 5 minutes to noon here in the Rocky Mountain Empire, and I can honestly say it feels like 5 pm.

So far today we've had blown out diapers, barfed up breakfasts, and suffered the emotional and physical consequences of our little gluten-sensitive bread addict scoring a 'fix' in the form of a stolen baguette last Friday night. Let's just say diapers and tantrums from the underworld, and leave it at that.

Also, I just found a fist-sized chunk of sparkling clean asphalt in my dryer. All morning I'd been wondering 'is that the sound of rocks in my dryer?'

Close. Oh so close.

So glad I catered to his highness' sweet tooth and whipped up a batch of these bad boys for elevensies. Little ingrate.

The good news is, tonight is the last Presidential debate! And yes, I'll be live-blogging it on Facebook per usual, though I have to admit, I'm so ready to hang up the social network towel again once this whole sh*tstorm has settled and Team Mitt can begin mentally rearranging furniture at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. And making plans for re-installments of English busts and whatnot. Seriously sick of politics this go-round. And since I thrive on the stuff, I can only imagine how the average, temperate media-consumer feels. And it ain't good.

Today, while filled with bodily fluids, tantrums and poor culinary decisions, is nonetheless the feast day of my favorite not-quite-a-saint-yet of all time: Bl. John Paul II.

We were privileged to make the pilgrimage to Rome in 2011 as a family and stood in St. Peter's square while Pope Benedict declared him 'blessed.' It was one of the highlights of my life, and certainly remains one of the coolest things we've done with Joey. Which I will no doubt hold over his head for the rest of his life.

Incredibly, we were able to go back to Rome this past summer, this time with our little John Paul in tow, and early one Sunday morning as Mass came to an end in the Basilica, one very naughty mommy snuck her little chunker up to the altar and touched his little fist to his namesake's tomb. Way cool.

On a more serious note, our sweet John Paul has a medical condition he was born with necessitating a relatively simple, out-patient surgery that is scheduled for this coming Monday, a week from today. His doctors have assured us it isn't complicated or especially dangerous, but he does have to go under general anesthesia, and I can't come into the OR with him. So, that's really hard.

We've been praying under the patronage of Bl. John Paul II since we discovered his condition when he was just 1 day old, and we have confidence that he can be healed without the surgery, if God wills it. Will you join us in prayer this final week? We would have loved to have received an immediate healing for our little man, but how cool would it be if they get him onto the operating table and discover there's no longer a reason to operate?!

Way cool.

So Bl. John Paul II, patron of the unborn and of the youth (among other awesome and numerous things), pray for us on this, your feast day.

And please excuse the mess.

Sleep training is a four-letter word

So my kids are apparently 19-month apart twins (yes, I am already explaining to strangers that a skinny toddler + a fatty 4 month old does not equal womb-mates.) Come on people, the (slightly) larger one speaks in complete sentences, while the shorter fatty dabbles in projectile vomiting and gummy smiles. So yes, anyway, clearly twins.

As I sit here contemplating whether or not to air their dirty, sleep-deprived laundry on the internet, the slightly smaller one is moaning at me from his impeccably decorated nursery (maybe it's too pretty for him to sleep?) while the bigger fellow utters plaintive cries from the basement. Which is now his bedroom. Which I can only hear because they drift up through the floorboards and slowly erode what was left of my sane mind.

Ironically, the last two nights have been our best ever. Ever. In nearly 2 years of exterior parenting. And tonight, by golly, we will try our damndest to painstakingly re-create the magical elixir of ambient sounds and circumstance to try for a hat trick. So, here's hoping.

The thing about these two precious boys is, they were both born without the desire to sleep. One prefers falling asleep briefly and popping up every, oh, 20 minutes or so to say heeeeeeeey, and the other prefers to scream/talk/whine it out for about an hour until he surrenders to a slumber so light, we brush our teeth slowly so as to make less noise. And forget about flossing. What if he hears the box click shut? Oh the horror.

We've read our way through the gamut of sleep-training handbooks, everything from the mildly sadistic Babywise to the straight up commune-style Dr. Sears manifesto. And a few in-betweeners like the Baby Whisperer, Healthy Sleep Happy Child, and, while I've yet to crack open my own copy, I've heard good things about 'Go the *$(% to Sleep.' So maybe we'll try that next.

Anyway, last night was awesome, naptime today is crashing and burning, and I just ripped 'Bun Bun,' Joey's beloved stuffed rabbit gifted to him at birth by grandma, from his clutches. And now he is softly weeping himself towards what I hope is dreamland and not the psych ward.

Time will tell.

Any hints, mamas? And not to get all judgy, but we just got the small fatty out of our bed and it would take a home invasion of vigilante tigers with machetes and napalm to get me to take him back under our covers, so ... yeah. We're not into co-sleeping.