All These Things (Part I)

I've never done a multi-part post. I just write and write until the story is out of me. Today will be different. Here's Part One:

Thank you to all my dear concerned friends who commented, called, instant messaged, emailed, offered yourselves to me selflessly. Thanks to Dr. Laura, who evidently reads my mind. I've taken as much of all of your advice as I can.

Tuesday got worse before it got better.

It started at 3 am with a baby who once slept through the night, popped four teeth, and now needs to relearn how to sleep through the night. She forgets that FIRST you have to lay down. Then you suck a couple of fingers, than you just drift off to dream land. *Broken, we call it. Baby girl is very broken.

At 4 am, Greg poked his head in Sagan's room and asked (seriously), "Why are you torturing her?" He wanted me to abandon her and go back to bed. But her sadness penetrates through pillows, fingers pressed to eardrums, loud breathing ... everything I can do to block her cries; they penetrate.

At 5:30 am, she FINALLY REALLY gave in. As I crawled in bed, Greg mumbled, "I told you so," but claims to have no memory of making such a senseless statement.

Cri went to school. Greg was about to go to work. Then I broke. I yelled at him that I NEEDED him to come home from work earlier. I couldn't take it, I needed a break. I indicated imminent impending insanity. I did. He was certain such a simple thing as him being home 60-90 minutes earlier couldn't possibly be the CURE I think it is. Yes, yes, the crazy girl knows nothing, run along husband, I'm sure everything will be fine. He left mad. Very very mad.

I didn't clean. I whined to the internets. They sympathized. They advised. Take a break, you're breaking.

You're telling me.

Listened to sad songs.

I tried some retail therapy: Dollar store (in this economy ...). Took a pregnancy test, y'know, maybe there's an innocent scapegoat to blame. I failed the test. Such a failure. I guess those sore boobs ARE due to baby's new sharp teeth. Cleaned a wall, applied stickers.

I looked at the clock. After 4pm and no Crichton, yet? Hmm. I went outside and looked down the street. There he was. I waved ... he looked like he was crying.

What's up?

"Dad said he'd be there in 20 minutes, but it was already 20 minutes and he wasn't there and I don't like walking home anymore and sometimes the bathrooms at school work and sometimes they don't. The principal ...."

Wait. What about Dad?

"Your phone wouldn't work and I called dad and he said he would be there in 20 minutes, but he wasn't."

You called Dad to pick you up?

Lovely. Just rainbow sparkling perfect.

We go inside. My phone is (always) lost, neighbor girls are locked out of their house, want to call their dad, my baby's crying, Canon has no pants on. I locate my phone in the van: 5 missed calls, all from Greg. I am in so much trouble.

I call Greg, he's almost home.

"You can go back to work. Sorry."

"I'm gonna be late tonight."

"That's what I expect." Of course, what do I do to make him want to come home? Everything is a mess, inside and out.

I need a break.

There is one magical place a Mormon woman can go, an indisturbable sanctuary - temple. I asked my mom for help (a triumph for my prideful soul, in and of itself). I made dinner, changed my clothes, grabbed my temple bag, and abandoned my life.

As far as I was concerned, it was a one-way ticket.

20 minutes of driving. Very quiet in the minivan, feeling like I forgot something.

I have no sense of direction - I take the exit I think might get me there, I am wrong. I drive around the old (i.e. scary & dark) part of town and just before I'm about to give up, there is the Angel Moroni in the sky. Ah. Okay. Park, walk slowly inside. Alone.

In the 10 years since I was endowed and sealed to my husband, I've never gone to the temple alone. It's always been with Greg, always happy, always holding hands. I show my temple recommend card to the old man at the desk. He scans it and looks me in the eye, "Welcome, Sister Roth."

I think some cynical thought about religious bureaucracy.

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*How fix your broken sleeper:

1. You stand by their bed or crib and CALMLY (ha ha ha) keep putting them into sleeping position until they realize they need to stay in sleeping position (I only have luck putting my kids belly down and none of my kids have gone "belly up," but I CAN only recommend putting them down on their backs. Having a fan in the room is supposed to reduce the chances of SIDS and also works as a nice white noise machine if you haven't yet mastered your Ninja Parent techniques.

Oh. That's it, just one step. Repeat a million times the first night, half a million the second night and 3-4 times the third night, once, maybe twice there after until they break again.

Last night (night 2) Sagan politely slept from midnight until 7, at which point Canon ran into her room yelling, "SAGAN! YOU AWAKE?" At which point the answer was affirmative. Very, very affirmative.