In case no one has actually proved that neurotic people will most likely give birth to neurotic children, there is tonight to cement the issue. I would send this post to some lofty scientific magazine, but lacking a bunch of letters after my name, I'm pretty sure they would use it for virtual toilet paper.
We made the evolutionary leap to toddler beds a couple of months ago and barring the occasional nighttime stalking where I most definitely did not wet my pants being woken up by a little face three inches from mine at 2am, it's gone fairly well. HOWEVER, in the last few weeks, we have morphed from peaceful bedtimes to bedtimes of the apocalypse. There is weeping, wailing, gnashing of teeth, and that's just from me, the the lesser character in these scenes. The sweetly brief bedtime routines morphed into lengthy battles concluding in either a tears to sleep process or my complete capitulation with a toddler snoozing happily in my bed, hoarding my favorite pillow beneath her stomach.
It all started with...airplanes.
Out of nowhere, the girls, Abby, in particular, have developed an intense fear of airplanes. Savannah, my fearless princess is less afraid than announcer of these dread horrors of the sky, inducing Abby to immediately seek some sort of shelter, be it under my car, inside my baby bag, or simply beneath her blanket so those devious metal flying monsters won't be able to find her. I admit, I was entirely unprepared for this situation and I had a really hard time not laughing as she dashed into the house from the backyard, clutching her blanket tightly, shrieking, "Airpanes goin' to get me! Airpanes goin' to get me!!!" Savannah followed hot of her heels, yelling, "It's airplanes! IT'S AIRPLANES!!!" with the kind of dramatic tones that suggest monster (or zombies) are actually airdropping from said planes straight into our backyard. (I looked just to make sure. No zombies.)
Interestingly, the girls had just had a plane ride to Texas not two months ago when N.U.'s father passed away and I didn't have to bribe them to go into the belly of the beast there so that really indicates exactly how new this fear is.
Now, we don't live right by the airport and planes passing overhead are not an hourly occurrence but there is a time, that every day, a plane passes over our house, winging its way somewhere. Is it early in the morning, waking my children with their new, scream-inducing fear? You'd think, but, no. Is it mid afternoon, interrupting play time and Mommy's secret chocolate snack time? Sometimes. But every single night at bedtime, the winged demons of sky fly overhead and the twinsome bolt from their beds, yelling their dismay for all to hear. Originally, they parlayed this fear into six more songs, two more stories, and three more tuck-ins into the nightly bedtime process but even those extreme measures proved not enough. Abby had the perfect solution, irregardless of size constraints.
"Mommy! Lay down wit me!" Abby would scoot over to the far edge of her toddler bed and pat a miniscule space in which I was expected to contort my body.
"Abby. Mommy is too big for your bed," I patiently explained. "I can sit right here, by your bed and hold your hand, okay?"
"NO. Mommy not too big (noting to self to have her vision checked). Mommy is just RIGHT!"
"Honey, Mommy is just"
"Lay down wit me!"
And that is how I find myself, irreversibly crammed into half of a toddler bed, listening for the sounds of the nightly plane of terror and wondering if my chiropractor has any open appointments for tomorrow. Luckily, he does.
Good night.
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