Well, after an amazing three-day sleeping frenzy last week, the little angel has gone back to her late-night partying ways.  What a mistake it was to take her to my parent's house for New Year's Eve.  We live and we learn.  The next time I'm forced to choose between expensive but bad champagne and a full night's sleep, remind me to choose the full night's sleep.

To boot, my beloved is in St. Louis this week, so the combination of the little angel's Midwest trotting and her daddy suddenly missing in action has wreaked havoc on the allure of the big-girl bed.  Two nights ago she did make it until four before she howled, but last night it was 2:30.  I attempted to get her to go back to sleep in her bed, offering back rubbing and some whining from Elmo that he didn't want her to leave. She was having none of it.  Finally after about an hour, I gave in and brought her down to the couch. I figure we can deal with it when there are two of us and I can apply earplugs every other night.

The saddest part, though, was that I showed her the next developmentally appropriate Ebay purchase:  the size 7W Stride Rite blinky-light shoes.  I showed them to her right after her bath.  She immediately wanted to put them on with her baggy pajama bottoms, causing me to momentarily mistake her for Julia Stiles in the second half of Save the Last Dance.  The little angel squealed with delight, gingerly lifting a foot then stamping it down to watch the lights go off.  She tore off down the hall to show Sybil her new kicks.  I leaned back, wondering if bribing her to sleep with shoes would trigger some $40,000 Jimmy Choo habit later in life. 

Oh, well. It didn't work, anyway. I had to sneak in to her room this morning and hide the shoes.  No, she's not wearing those babies until she sleeps through the night.  IF you're going to use bribery, for God's sake, there are RULES.

Well, after an amazing three-day sleeping frenzy last week, the little angel has gone back to her late-night partying ways.  What a mistake it was to take her to my parent's house for New Year's Eve.  We live and we learn.  The next time I'm forced to choose between expensive but bad champagne and a full night's sleep, remind me to choose the full night's sleep.

To boot, my beloved is in St. Louis this week, so the combination of the little angel's Midwest trotting and her daddy suddenly missing in action has wreaked havoc on the allure of the big-girl bed.  Two nights ago she did make it until four before she howled, but last night it was 2:30.  I attempted to get her to go back to sleep in her bed, offering back rubbing and some whining from Elmo that he didn't want her to leave. She was having none of it.  Finally after about an hour, I gave in and brought her down to the couch. I figure we can deal with it when there are two of us and I can apply earplugs every other night.

The saddest part, though, was that I showed her the next developmentally appropriate Ebay purchase:  the size 7W Stride Rite blinky-light shoes.  I showed them to her right after her bath.  She immediately wanted to put them on with her baggy pajama bottoms, causing me to momentarily mistake her for Julia Stiles in the second half of Save the Last Dance.  The little angel squealed with delight, gingerly lifting a foot then stamping it down to watch the lights go off.  She tore off down the hall to show Sybil her new kicks.  I leaned back, wondering if bribing her to sleep with shoes would trigger some $40,000 Jimmy Choo habit later in life. 

Oh, well. It didn't work, anyway. I had to sneak in to her room this morning and hide the shoes.  No, she's not wearing those babies until she sleeps through the night.  IF you're going to use bribery, for God's sake, there are RULES.

I have a confession to make:  I can't sing. 

I don't know when it happened.  I was in choir my entire youth.  I sang duets and solos in church.  I played Marty in my high school production of Grease.  I did a good job with "Freddy, My Love."  My public, they loved me.

Maybe it was the college and post-college years of pack-a-day smoking.  Maybe it's that I used to sing soprano, and now I should sing alto, but I really don't know how.  Maybe it's that sometimes when you're younger you can do things (I used to be fairly adept at drawing), then when you get older, those talents just poof away, replaced by skills like balancing a checkbook or knowing how to get Microsoft Paint to let you undo more than one thing at a time.  Maybe it was the 13 phone numbers I've had since I left home.  Maybe all that memorizing of useless data fried my vocal chords.

Maybe I could NEVER sing and people were just humoring me this whole time.

I've known for a while I can't sing. When I'm sitting in church, I fake it most of the time.  I pretend I'm attending to the little angel's needs if there are people in the pew in front of me.  My beloved knows I can't sing, but he never knew I could, so like so many things about me he hears but does not believe, he can't fathom me ever having been able to do it. I can't get him to sit through the ancient video recording of Grease.  Maybe because it's on Beta.

I did think, though, that the angel was fooled.  Ever since she was a wee tot, I've been singing to her in the bathtub. Usually "Splish, Splash."  She used to like it.  At least, she pretended to like it.  Then, there was tonight.  I plopped her in the tub, along with her favorite bath toys:  Duckie, Mesh Duckie, Rain, Boat, Walrus Cu Cu Cachu, Frog, Hippo and Fishie.  She splashed away with delight.  Absentmindedly, I began to sing, thinking of New Year's Eve, and how my mother would be giving the little angel a bath while I put on my pretty new hip shirt from a Chicago boutique (thanks, Sister Little) and fun jewely and even high heels and went out on the town with my high school friends, who even to this day offered up booze cruising on gravel roads as a potential option for the evening.

Not that I ever did that in high school, of course.

Halfway through the first verse, the little angel stopped her splashing, Mesh Duckie hanging from one pudgy finger. 

Little Angel:  "Mama, no sing."

I choked on my gum.

Me: "WHAT?"

The little angel looked at me kindly.  She put down Mesh Duckie and studied me with her big, blue eyes.

Little Angel:  "NO SING."

(sob)

I have a confession to make:  I can't sing. 

I don't know when it happened.  I was in choir my entire youth.  I sang duets and solos in church.  I played Marty in my high school production of Grease.  I did a good job with "Freddy, My Love."  My public, they loved me.

Maybe it was the college and post-college years of pack-a-day smoking.  Maybe it's that I used to sing soprano, and now I should sing alto, but I really don't know how.  Maybe it's that sometimes when you're younger you can do things (I used to be fairly adept at drawing), then when you get older, those talents just poof away, replaced by skills like balancing a checkbook or knowing how to get Microsoft Paint to let you undo more than one thing at a time.  Maybe it was the 13 phone numbers I've had since I left home.  Maybe all that memorizing of useless data fried my vocal chords.

Maybe I could NEVER sing and people were just humoring me this whole time.

I've known for a while I can't sing. When I'm sitting in church, I fake it most of the time.  I pretend I'm attending to the little angel's needs if there are people in the pew in front of me.  My beloved knows I can't sing, but he never knew I could, so like so many things about me he hears but does not believe, he can't fathom me ever having been able to do it. I can't get him to sit through the ancient video recording of Grease.  Maybe because it's on Beta.

I did think, though, that the angel was fooled.  Ever since she was a wee tot, I've been singing to her in the bathtub. Usually "Splish, Splash."  She used to like it.  At least, she pretended to like it.  Then, there was tonight.  I plopped her in the tub, along with her favorite bath toys:  Duckie, Mesh Duckie, Rain, Boat, Walrus Cu Cu Cachu, Frog, Hippo and Fishie.  She splashed away with delight.  Absentmindedly, I began to sing, thinking of New Year's Eve, and how my mother would be giving the little angel a bath while I put on my pretty new hip shirt from a Chicago boutique (thanks, Sister Little) and fun jewely and even high heels and went out on the town with my high school friends, who even to this day offered up booze cruising on gravel roads as a potential option for the evening.

Not that I ever did that in high school, of course.

Halfway through the first verse, the little angel stopped her splashing, Mesh Duckie hanging from one pudgy finger. 

Little Angel:  "Mama, no sing."

I choked on my gum.

Me: "WHAT?"

The little angel looked at me kindly.  She put down Mesh Duckie and studied me with her big, blue eyes.

Little Angel:  "NO SING."

(sob)

It's too early for the jury to be out, but that toddler bed sure seems to be working. Last night the little angel slept until SIX A.M.  Of course, in the ultimate parenting irony, I woke up at four and slept fitfully until six, waiting for the other Stride Rite to drop.

She was rewarded with kitty stickers and the pleasure of wearing her new Fussy t-shirt.

It's too early for the jury to be out, but that toddler bed sure seems to be working. Last night the little angel slept until SIX A.M.  Of course, in the ultimate parenting irony, I woke up at four and slept fitfully until six, waiting for the other Stride Rite to drop.

She was rewarded with kitty stickers and the pleasure of wearing her new Fussy t-shirt.

Setting:  Ridiculously Large Vehicle.  Driving Home From Christmas.

Me:  "You know, she really isn't sleeping alone."

Beloved:  (removes headphones) "Eh?"

Me:  "Maybe we should just put her in the toddler bed now.  I mean, it can't get any worse. She hasn't slept through the night in eight days."

Beloved:  "Really?"

Me:  "What the hell?"

This is how important parenting decisions are made.

So we drove home, dropped off all our bags, rescued Sybil from the Pet Hotel and drove straight to Toys R Us, where we purchased the second-to-last white toddler bed available for the bargain-basement price of $70. 

Yesterday afternoon while I labored over a training manual, my beloved put together the bed, took apart the crib, put a latch on the closet door and installed a custom gate across her bedroom door.  The transformation is complete. Her room is now a little girl's room,  complete with bins of books and toys, stuffed animals, dolls and a few musical instruments.  Elmo takes up half the bed, but she doesn't care.  She luvs him.

Right before we went to pick her up, I foolishly typed in "transition to toddler bed night waking" in Google and spent about twenty minutes reading horror stories of children who Never Again Slept after getting the toddler bed. 

Me:  "Honey?  Do you think it's dumb that we just got rid of the crib without a good-bye ritual?  Should we have let her choose which to sleep in?  We didn't let her pick out sheets with characters on them!  What will we do?"

Beloved:  "Judas Priest.  You have been reading the Internet again, haven't you?"

Me:  (stunned silence)

Well, we went to Target anyway to see if she wanted to pick out something for her big-girl bed, but it was all ugly and picked over, so we ended up leaving with nothing but a pooh blanket that she doesn't even like.  However, she went to bed fine and slept until 4 a.m. - four hours later than she has been sleeping for the past week.  Apparently, once she was up and realized she could reach her toys, she still wanted to party, but I hope in time we can get past that.

I mean, how could you resist it? 

Setting:  Ridiculously Large Vehicle.  Driving Home From Christmas.

Me:  "You know, she really isn't sleeping alone."

Beloved:  (removes headphones) "Eh?"

Me:  "Maybe we should just put her in the toddler bed now.  I mean, it can't get any worse. She hasn't slept through the night in eight days."

Beloved:  "Really?"

Me:  "What the hell?"

This is how important parenting decisions are made.

So we drove home, dropped off all our bags, rescued Sybil from the Pet Hotel and drove straight to Toys R Us, where we purchased the second-to-last white toddler bed available for the bargain-basement price of $70. 

Yesterday afternoon while I labored over a training manual, my beloved put together the bed, took apart the crib, put a latch on the closet door and installed a custom gate across her bedroom door.  The transformation is complete. Her room is now a little girl's room,  complete with bins of books and toys, stuffed animals, dolls and a few musical instruments.  Elmo takes up half the bed, but she doesn't care.  She luvs him.

Right before we went to pick her up, I foolishly typed in "transition to toddler bed night waking" in Google and spent about twenty minutes reading horror stories of children who Never Again Slept after getting the toddler bed. 

Me:  "Honey?  Do you think it's dumb that we just got rid of the crib without a good-bye ritual?  Should we have let her choose which to sleep in?  We didn't let her pick out sheets with characters on them!  What will we do?"

Beloved:  "Judas Priest.  You have been reading the Internet again, haven't you?"

Me:  (stunned silence)

Well, we went to Target anyway to see if she wanted to pick out something for her big-girl bed, but it was all ugly and picked over, so we ended up leaving with nothing but a pooh blanket that she doesn't even like.  However, she went to bed fine and slept until 4 a.m. - four hours later than she has been sleeping for the past week.  Apparently, once she was up and realized she could reach her toys, she still wanted to party, but I hope in time we can get past that.

I mean, how could you resist it? 

We may be breeding vanity by videotaping the little angel's holiday fun.  We decided to drag the camera along, considering we have filmed barely sixty minutes of footage in twenty months.  Yesterday, we hooked up the camera to the television to show my parents the little angel's first steps.

She was immediately transfixed.  She shrieked with delight, crying out her own name and pounding the screen.  She stood directly in front of the screen, despite frequent bodily removal, lovingly caressing her own image.  From then on, every time someone touched the television, she jumped up and called out her name, wanting more than her fifteen minutes of fame.

I'm considering changing her name to Jessica Simpson.