Last in the Rat Race

December is a special time of year for me at work. It’s that time when we send out 2,500+ “holiday cards” to clients, friends, referral sources, etc. Not too a big deal except that (a) each card is personally signed by one or more attorneys – which takes TIME and (b) I always get a late start. Always.

This year, I was sticking address labels at home. Before she went to bed, Kate insisted on helping. thankfully, those Avery labels have a border which is just as sticky as the real labels. Kate pulled off label after label and stuck them where she thought they should go. As long as she wasn’t in my business, I really didn’t notice where she was sticking them. By her bedtime, I realized she had made a set of Avery body armor.

I think she was pretty pleased with her creation.

This year’s selection of Christmas specials on TV is by far the best – and more prolific – I’ve seen. From the tried and true (Rudolph, Charlie Brown) to the new and delightful (Prep and Landing, The Flight Before Christmas), we have enjoyed them all and, thanks to our dvr, we continue to enjoy them over and over and over again…

Last weekend, Frosty made his debut. We sat on the couch together and watch as he came to life, danced and made his way to the North Pole with Karen.

Kate was entranced.

As we all know, Frosty has some problems in a greenhouse along the way. You know and I know – as does anyone who has heard the song – he rebounds with Santa’s help and all is well. Kate, however, wasn’t privy to this bit of intel and watched horrified and saddened when Frosty was reduced to a puddle on the floor.

I watch as her eyes got a little shiny. She put her hands to her face and made little binoculars out of her fingers – she could barely watch it.

Of course, as mentioned above, and as we all know, Frosty comes back to life and all is well in the world.

Kate would agree, but that little bit of tragedy left a mark and she’s put “Frosty the Snowman” on her Sad/Bad Christmas Special list.

(on the other hand, The Flight Before Christmas – which includes a one-night stand resulting in pregnancy and a wolf determined to EAT Santa – is on her Happy/Good Christmas special list. go figure.)

I don’t know quite what to make of the timing:

On the same day I received my coveted “Schmommy of the Year” t-shirt from the West Coast Wenches (thank you very much, glad to hear that leaving my kid in the middle of traffic really did pay off!), I had my precious little girl use the H word. At me.

After a fantastic evening of shells & cheese AND Christmas specials, it was time to turn in for the night. For Kate at least.

Let’s just say she didn’t skip off merrily into her bedroom.

Kicking, kicking the dog (bless her – the dog, I mean), and saying that she wasn’t my best friend anymore. I’ve seen and heard it all before and calmly reminded her that as her MOTHER, my job is to see that she gets a good night’s sleep. So she can get up in the morning and go play and blah, blah, blah.

I went into her room, put some stuff away, and turned down her covers.

By this time, she had followed me as far as the hallway. Complaining.

Blah, blah, need to get a good night’s sleep. And then it happened.

“I hate you!” she says and looks at me with a mix of defiance and oh-crap-what-have-I-done.

Oh no you di’int. Stunned silence from me, Mike, Kate and even the dog sensed a shit-storm on its way.

“Wow. Ok. Time for bed. You really hurt my feelings. That’s not nice and really hurt my feelings. To bed. No books. To bed.”

“But I wanna read a booookkkkk….”

(I hate that – how do you deny a bedtime story?!? My co-worker Mindy – she of the TWO little kids – shook her head at my weakness on that one…)

Whatever, I was still too stunned and agreed to one, calm book.

After, tucked her in, kissed her and said goodnight. Promptly left the house to take the dog for a walk. It’s 30 degrees and misting. Didn’t care.

When I returned and sat with Mike on our bed, he mentioned that he went in and talked with her, mentioned how “hate” is such a bad word, never to use it, hurt your mom’s feelings, etc. Way to go Dad. You done good.

Kate tip-toed in with a quiet newsflash, “I sat on my giraffe’s horns, but now I’m ok.”

“Ok, go to bed.”

Another visit with an equally innocent news update.

“Man, she just can’t settle down,” I said.

“She’s worried,” MRA’s reply.

On the third visit, I got up and walked with her back to her room to tuck her back in. Told her I loved her again, etc. I turned to leave and by the time I got to her door…

“Mommy?”

“Yes, Katie.”

“I’m really sorry I said that hate word. I’m sorry.”

Holy crap, I about cried.

Wow, I love that kid.

… is a baby T-Rex.

Thrice now we have talked about what to ask Santa for Christmas.

Round #1 – another puppy (”Remember he brought us Paddi last year?”) and a deer (”A reindeer”)
After that round, I let a week pass before bringing up the topic again.

Round #2 – a T-Rex.
“Wow, a T-Rex, really? Where would he live?”
“In the garage.”
“What would you feed him?”
“Um… dog food.”
“Hm… I seem to remember that T-Rex is a carnivore. Remember Buddy from Dinosaur Train? He needs to eat meat. What if he ate Paddi?”
Laughter. Silly mommy. “He wouldn’t eat Paddi! He might lick her, but he wouldn’t eat her!”
Hm.
(another week passes)

Round #3 – a baby T-Rex.
(damn)
“Santa may have a hard time with live beings.” (please don’t bring up last year’s dog gift again!) “How would Santa fit a T-Rex down the chimney?”
“Well, when it’s little like this one,” she runs off to get her prop – a five-inch plastic T-Rex, “it will fit down the chimney easy. When it gets a little bigger like this one,” she holds up here T-Rex from Build-A-Bear, “it will still fit in the house.”

What am I supposed to do with that?!?

Tuesday night, MRA was in Chicago. Kate awoke at 12:30 (or 3:30 can’t remember which) and crawled into bed with me. Too tired to argue or haul her back to her own bed, I simply settled in and braced myself for a bumpy few hours. Arm around my neck, feet in my back, dog in her way. You get the picture.

In a weak moment, I shared my “poor me” tale with Mike who then artfully asked, “Why did you let her sleep with you?”

Why indeed…

Fast forward to last night at 1:50 am. I hear the unmistakable sound of her door cracking open and little footsteps making their way to my bed. I bounce up and proclaim that I’m going with her back to her room where I will lovingly rub her back until she’s ready to drift off again… IN HER OWN BED.

This is where it got ugly.

No words, just screeches, thrashing and whining. I pop her back down in her own bed and try to tuck her in.

More wailing. Now kicking.

I decide to get up and just go back to my own bed. No sense in fighting her into letting me rub her back, right?

I walk out and she runs after me, wailing the whole way.

Remembering the one (maybe two) episode(s) of Super Nanny, I resolve to put her back in bed again and again until she caves.

After about the third trip, Mike storms out of the guest room where he had lulled himself to sleep to the dulcet tunes of the Military Channel. (who wouldn’t find machine gun fire soothing?) “What is going on here? Perhaps you could pick another stand your ground?”

“When?”

“On a night where it wouldn’t disturb MY SLEEP!”

Oh, that’s rich. Open that door wide, boy, you’re gonna get an earful. (and he did)

One more trip with Kate and I decide to just sit on her bed with her and wait until she’s ready to nod off. Boy, she can be stubborn. The kicking soon stopped, but the eyes didn’t droop. She stared at me. Calculating. Flickering back and forth between my face and the ceiling. Waiting for a crack in my resolve. I finally closed my eyes and feigned peace. Zen baby.

By 3:00, we were all back in our own beds.

By 7:00, Mike took particular pleasure in waking the sleeping beauty from HER peaceful slumber.

Everything is better in the light of day. (At 2:30, though, I had started to wonder if I was raising Damien’s little sister. Nope… I can relax. She’s just a three-year old…)