Alert! Empty Toddler Bed at Naptime! Summon the -- Oh, Wait. Never Mind.

Today I mourn the loss of an ally of mine, perhaps the greatest savior of my sanity over the last three years: the double afternoon nap. Its death was a slow one. We all saw it coming, and yet we held on. Today, finally, I let go. For the first time in ages, I did not put my three-year-old down for a nap when my one-year-old went down. Farewell, free time. So long, afternoon solitude. Au revoir, uninterrupted blog reading. Adios, sense of self.

My son had been having trouble sleeping at bedtime. He had been lying awake for over an hour, or even getting up out of bed and sneaking around until 10:00. It wasn't like him. He's always been a really good sleeper. I suspected THE NAP, which he had begun to take a bit later and, oddly enough, a bit longer, was the culprit. But I looked for every other excuse. It's the difficult transition of preschool, I said. It's because his daddy was out of town this week, I told myself. Deluding myself was no solution, however. The truth is that he was sleeping too much during the day and then was unable to sleep at night.

So today he stayed up all day and wasn't even exceptionally cranky this evening. Oh, yes, there is hope he will be cranky and begging for a nap tomorrow afternoon. But in my heart, I know what's true: my afternoons will be a bit noisier from now on, filled with more whining and less productivity.

On the other hand, though, I will get my son all to myself, and vice versa, on weekday afternoons. That's nice. I think he needs that one-on-one time with me without his baby sister. Honestly, I enjoyed my son more this afternoon than I have in a long time. He's funny and sweet, and even if I can't read my blogs without interruption anymore, I have to admit he's great company, that kid.

Clowning Around at the Flea Circus

We have had houseguests. I had no idea until one jumped from my daughter's hair onto my arm. And another jumped from my son's shirt to his neck. So I checked my cats and found them to be hosting quite the three-ring. Did I mention our cats are indoor-only cats? And that they haven't had fleas since the flea treatments/flea bomb shortly after I adopted them and took them home to my one-bedroom apartment lo those ten years ago?

Three theories:

1) The fleas came in on our shoes and pant legs and then found their way to the cats, who offered them comfy places to copulate.

2) The previous owners of the house left a few of the critters behind when they took their dog, and those critters made their way to the cats and slowly increased their numbers and only went to the children's bedrooms when the carpet was removed from the rest of the house a couple months ago.

3) The two salamanders I found in our basement last month were actually agents of the circus. Smoking cigars late into the night and speaking in hushed and husky voices, they negotiated with my aging felines until the cats made a deal with the devil.

I'm leaning toward Theory Number 3.

Yesterday was the great de-fleaing. The cats were treated. The house was bombed. We vacated for two and a half hours and fed the kids Wendy's Frosties way past their bedtime to keep them from driving us crazy while we waited. And so far there have been no new flea sightings. The cats are happy to be out of their evil kitty carriers, and I am happy that my children won't be getting any flea bites for a while.

And now, because I am not completely heartless, we shall sing the following to remember those tiny ones who fell in yesterday's siege:

Baby saw that when they pulled that big top down
They left behind her dreams among the litter.
The different kind of love she thought she'd found
There was nothin' left but sawdust and some glitter.
Don't cry out loud. Just keep it inside.
Learn how to hide your feelings.
Fly high and proud. And if you should fall,
Remember you almost had it all. . . .

Um, yeah.

Salad Island

Personally, I prefer red wine vinaigrette or peppercorn ranch, but the hubby and kids are all about the thousand island. I used to like it, too. In my teen dieting days I forced myself to eat many a salad topped with the stuff, and I know that it tastes quite nasty coming back up. But, as I said, my husband likes it and has now introduced the kids to it.

"Mommy, I want salad island on my salad!" my son says whenever he sees greens on his plate.

Salad island. Makes sense to me. I've been enjoying his cute mistake for weeks.

Today my daughter, whom we call Little Miss Words, and whose vocabulary never fails to freak out her pediatrician, added her own interpretation.

"Do you want dressing on your salad?" I ask her.

"Yes!" She points to her plate. "I want Coney Island right there!"

So Coney Island it is. It makes it sound somewhat more palatable, makes it sound fun and whimsical and -- oh, wait, smelling a bit like greasy food upchucked into a rusty metal trash can beside the tilt-a-whirl.

Um, yeah. I think I'll stick to my "popcorn" ranch.

Adjusting

My little boy is officially a preschooler now. This is his second week of school, and he is, let's just say, adjusting. By "adjusting," of course, I mean that he clings and/or cries. His assistant teacher cannot leave the room because my son is permanently attached to her. Today was the first day he actually cried when I left, but there were tears during the day last week -- mostly during music class during one "sad song" or another. He's very sensitive to music, that kid, and cannot handle minor chords.

It's tough leaving him when I know he's missing me, but at the same time, I know he needs to get used to it now. He's three. I feel guilty for not having prepared him better -- by putting him in daycare, by leaving him with sitters more, etc. He's the only kid in his class who seems to be having this difficult a time adjusting. It's not as if he's constantly in tears or anything -- he loves his school and his teachers and has learned something like a million songs already -- but he's just not adjusting as smoothly as the other kids are. Last week I worried and worried about it. It's easy to blame myself, or even to become impatient with my son.

He is who he is, though. It's not fair of me to expect him to be something different. Change is difficult for him. He's coping the best way he can -- by going to school (usually willingly) despite being afraid, participating as much as he feels able, asking for the support he needs (i.e. clinging to the assistant teacher), and pretend-play rehearsing learning circle and music class when he is home as sort of a practice for the real thing. If it takes him longer than it takes the other kids, fine. I have to stop comparing him to them. He's making progress at his own pace. I need to chill out. He'll adjust.

If I keep telling myself that, perhaps I'll adjust, too.