still laughing

It was a long February.  (It never ceases to amaze me that the shortest month of the year can feel so. very. long.)

We didn't suffer any catastrophes at the circus, just the slight complications of everyday life.  Little people with colds.  Big people with papers and tests.  Little people waking in the night.  Big people who wanted to sleep through the night.  Big people with colds.  Little people with more colds.  And new teeth.  Temper tantrums -- some from the kids.  Lots and lots and lots of rain.

We've been weary, friends.  Nothing earth-shattering, just the compounded tiredness that (we're coming to believe) comes with parenting a rather young circus.

But March is here now, and though it's still raining, we've hope for spring and for sleep and for sunshine  -- each in its own time, of course.  And even in our exhaustion, we've found plenty of reasons to laugh.  Our little people are good for that.  Maybe not for sleeping, but definitely for laughing!

: :  We're cruising the aisles at Target, two children in the cart, one holding onto its side.  Kathleen's eyes light up and she calls out, "Look, Mama!  A surfboard!"  But we're in the laundry aisle.  And it's an ironing board.  I must be some housekeeper.

: :  The kids cheer, "Daddy!" as Jim climbs into the van at the end of a long school day.  He slides into the front seat and Madeline asks very seriously, "You good at school today, Daddy?  You listen your teacher?"

: :  I'm trying to check e-mail quickly before Kathleen naps (she and the computer share the same room at naptime, which decreases my computer time and generally increases my naptime productivity).  She's waiting impatiently (me, too, as the computer is slow, slow, slow of late) for me to finish and read her a story.  I'm nearly done when she begins burping.  And burping.  And burping.  I give her a meaningful look and say, "Kathleen?" -- expecting an apology or an "excuse me" or something.  But instead she grins and says, "It will never stop!"  She  keeps right on burping.  And all I can do is laugh.

: :  John David has discovered his voice.  It's loud.  He screeches about most everything -- when we're not feeding him quickly enough, when he'd rather be outside or not in the playpen.  And he's discovered the kitchen cabinets.  He loves to open them.  And to empty them.  We've already sacrificed a corning ware serving dish to his adventuring.  Consequently, we've had to gate off the kitchen.  (We did try to install safety latches, but the strange laminate breaks when you drill into it.)  And so now I see this while I cook dinner:

It's significantly cuter than its soundtrack.

: :  The girls are standing on their stepstools at the bathroom sink, brushing their teeth.  Their dad is overseeing them.  "Daddy," Kathleen announces, "I don't like it when you put us to bed.  It's harder.  And it's harder to breathe."  Understandably confused, Jim asks why.  She answers, "Because you're so big.  And you take up too much room."  I guess she'd like a larger bathroom.

: :  The girls made an astonishing discovery this month -- that they can get out of their own beds.  They'd never done that before.  Ever.  But then, one night they did.  And suddenly they were turning up all over.  Shortly after bed: "I have something to tell you."  By my side in the middle of the night: "It's dark."  It has taken some time and a considerable amount of  patience, but we've just about gotten it under control.  (Kathleen obeyed quite quickly.  Madeline... not so much.)  As you can imagine, this has contributed to everyone's exhaustion.  But it's also given us some truly laughable moments.

One evening, early on in the girls' nocturnal adventuring, we were sending the girls back up to bed for about the fourth time by 8:15. We listened over the baby monitor as they climbed back into their beds, and heard Madeline ask, "Why Mommy and Daddy so gwumpy tonight?"  (As though normally we'd just say, "Sure!  Who cares about bedtime!  Come watch LOST with us.")

Another evening, I went to investigate some nocturnal noise and discovered Madeline sitting on her bed with every single book in her bedroom.  Open, no less.  No wonder she couldn't sleep -- there wasn't any room!

On yet another evening, Madeline had been chattering all night, but eventually the chattering had given way to whining, and by 9:40 the whining had become full-fledged crying.  By some miracle, the crying hadn't woken Kathleen, but as I entered the room I whispered, just in case.  "Madeline," I hissed, "What is going on?"  "Mama," she wailed, "why you be so mean to me?"  I explained, quite calmly, that I wasn't being mean, that it was nighttime and that little girls needed to sleep and that even if they didn't sleep, they needed to stay in their beds quietly, so that other people could sleep.  Unimpressed by my monologue, she cried, "But I just want you 'nuggle with me."  Undone by her two year-old logic, I climbed into her bed to snuggle.  I let her drape her little arm around my neck and press her knees into my tummy and breathe into my face for a bit.  Then I tucked her in with her loveys (one under each arm) and said goodnight.  She was snoring before I shut the door.

Because of the LORD's great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. 

They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.  -- Lamentations 3:22-23