We all celebrated Wifey/Supermom today--her first Mothers' Day in which the babes knew who she is. Wifey made waffles at my request--before I remembered what day it was. Bah! Blew that one! I endeavored to make it up to her by making the rest of the day all about her. Breakfast was followed by nap time for all four of us!
A word about napping--before getting to the titular subject. And oh, it's a story alright.
I had heard it said, and seen it written, that the transition from two to one nap can be...rough. Oh, babies. Again an example of a time to heed the warnings. (Though what I would have done differently eludes me at the moment.) It happened one day. And I mean one day. The night before, bedtime was nightmarish. I forget how late we were up, but I think I may have heard birds outside. Then again, they could have been flying in small circles around my head. Those babes....were....mad. And it became almost instantly clear that nap #2 had slipped off the endangered list into extinction--with no chance of Jurassic-style DNA retrieval.
This new wrinkle took about four days to iron out. The worst part for me, now that I am reasonably confident that the babes will endure and adapt, is that my daytime schedule has been literally turned inside-out. I felt like I was just getting into the swing of playdates, lunches, and errands. (With the occasional and extremely welcome social peer-outing.) Now if I want to leave the house, it's in the morning, getting back for lunch and then putting them down for naps. And not many of the babes' friends are yet on this schedule. Feeling a little lonely again. :'(
And now for the story I promised.
For Mothers' Day dinner, Wifey was honored/imperiled with my offer to cook--which I did. It went pretty well; I have a rather limited repertoire, but this is something that all involved parties recognize and accept. Dessert, however, was her doing--and it was a fantastic chocolate fondue!
Babes in highchairs, bibs snugly in place, garden hose at the ready--melted chocolate was served. This was tasty stuff--complete with banana, pineapple, and strawberries. The babes dug it. Did you ever see the movie, or its remake, The Blob? There's a scene in which a farmer pokes the just-impacted meteorite containing the baby Blob. It crawls up his stick and begins to envelop his arm--and ultimately his entire body. That's sorta' what happened this evening within the two highchairs in our kitchen.
I can not believe how much this chocolate multiplied. It was surely breeding. By the end, Boy had it up and down his legs, up both arms, and covering roughly 65% of his face. Girlie fared better--as she's a neater eater--but was still bordering on envelopment. A friend, who had seen photos of the aftermath, asked if they had murdered Willy Wonka.
We had to video chat. We called some cousins, one of whom encouraged Boy to slap himself in the head--or hair, more specifically. It was bathtime.
Boy was extricated from the chair and Wifey rather adeptly disrobed him and headed upstairs to draw a bath. Girlie was mine to wrangle. I got her out and immediately noticed the familiar aroma of #2. PANIC set in. It was true. She was my dutiful daughter. Why was this worse than any of the thousands of dirties I'd handled? I couldn't set her down without getting chocolate--or worse--on whichever surface she landed. And you can't just throw a child, in that state, in a bathtub!
- Fortunately, our nearby changing table was between laundry stages and did not yet have a cloth covering. Vinyl sounded like a good choice of surfaces!
- Unfortunately, we were out of wipes!
- Fortunately, there were wipes upstairs in the nursery!
- Unfortunately, I had to carry a poopy, chocolaty, naked baby upstairs by her ankles.
- Fortunately, I didn't collide her into any doorknobs or corners.
- Unfortunately, there weren't any wipes in the nursery.
- Fortunately, Wifey came to the rescue after setting Boy down in the empty tub!
- Unfortunately, without getting too graphic, it was that clay-like sticky business that needed....aggressive wiping.
I've said it before and I'll say it again:
Babies are gross.