Outnumbered

I always wanted three kids. I always thought that three was the perfect number. Ruanita wanted one, agreed to two, and got three. She was less than excited when we first found out I was having twins. I remember the moment vividly. I had experienced a bit of bleeding very early on in my pregnancy, so we had gone to the clinic for an ultrasound. I was lying on the table and Ruanita was standing over me holding my hand and being extremely loving and supportive. The minute the ultrasound technician announced that I was pregnant with twins, Ruanita immediately let go of my hand, put her hands in the air like someone was going to shoot her, and backed toward the door. I seriously suspect that her initial instinct was to run and she was fighting that urge with every fiber of her being. As for me, I was secretly thrilled when I found out we were having twins. I would get my “perfect” number. If I had only known then what I know now. I think Ruanita’s response may have been a bit more on-the-money than mine.

Don’t get me wrong…I would not trade either one of my little twinnies for anything in this entire world. I love all three of my children with a love than is bigger than myself…bigger than anything, as I am sure all parents do. However, if I had done the math, I may not have been so excited at the onset. It’s simple math really….kindergarten concepts. Three kids….two parents. Three is greater than two. Yep…we are outnumbered.

At no time does this “outnumbered” issue hit home as strikingly as it does during the week at that most dreaded of hours…bedtime. During the week, I am home alone with the kids at night while Ruanita is at work. The two of us are outnumbered on the weekends, but we manage. During the week when it is just me, “outnumbered” does not even begin to address the hell on Earth that occurs at bedtime every night. Take last night, for instance. We had our ECFE class until 7:30. By the time I got out of there, drove to Highland Park to pick Lucas up from my uncle’s house, and then drove back to my house in South Minneapolis, it was approaching 8:30pm. Since it was past her bedtime, Sophie fell asleep in the car. No big deal, right? For any other child, it would have been no big deal. However, I can’t even begin to tell you how BAD a scenario this is when it involves Sophie. Sophie is not a pleasant child when roused from sleep. As a matter of fact, Sophie can rival Satan himself for pure evil when roused from sleep. And it did not help that it was raining. You think she’s pissed off when she is awakened normally? Try waking her up and then carrying her to the house with rain beating her in the head. She was beyond “unpleasant.” The minute we crossed the threshold of the house, Sophie began screaming. It is like she enters some sort of strange trance when roused from sleep. There is no talking to her. There is no reasoning with her. She screams. She kicks. She hits. It’s like she loses all control of herself. My normally pleasant little girl becomes a raging monster. I decided that it would be best to get her ready for bed first. I picked her up, carried her to her room, and laid her on her bed to put on her pajamas. She refused to let me put on her pajamas. I had to physically hold her down and force her arms and legs into her cute little butterfly jammies. It was like wrestling a wild bore to get a diaper on her for the night. The entire time I dressed her, she continued to emote this high-pitched sound that I can’t even describe. It was a scream…but it was so much more than that. It was evil incarnate flowing from her lips. I was waiting her head to spin and pea soup to come flying out. OK….that may be a bit of an exaggeration. But it was definitely more than a little annoying. After working up a good sweat getting her dressed for bed, I tried to tuck her in. She would have no part of that. She threw her blankets on the floor. I ended up leaving her sitting on the side of her bed wailing while I went to get the boys ready for bed. Luckily the boys were somewhat cooperative with bedtime. I tried to rush them to get their pajamas on because I really wanted to get back to Sophie’s room to try to get her to sleep so the screams that were reverberating in my brain would cease. Of course, Lucas and Nicholas are two of the slowest creatures God ever put on this Earth. Trying to get them to move fast is like trying to nail Jell-O to a tree…futile, at best. Lucas was dancing around in his underwear chanting “Look at me. Look at me.” He’s oddly obsessed with showing off his underwear these days. Nicky, of course, did not like the pajamas I got out for him, so he was rummaging through his pajama drawer tossing tops and bottoms all over the floor. I finally got them tucked in after refusing to let them brush their teeth. I just didn’t have the fortitude to wrestle with toothbrushes last night. I know…bad mom. If my kids’ teeth rot out and I have to spent the rest of their childhood pureeing all of their food in a blender, I will only have myself to blame. After the night I had last night, I can live with that. After tucking the boys in and kissing them goodnight, I went back to Sophie’s room. She was STILL screaming at this point and had yet to lie down in her bed. I laid her down, tucked her in, and climbed up into her tiny twin bed with her. I shushed her and rubbed her head and kissed her cheek. Eventually her screams died down to mere sniffles. I watched as she finally…FINALLY…drifted off to sleep.

Tonight, I am considering letting them stay up until they pass out on the living room floor from pure exhaustion, wallowing in their own filth, sleeping in their dirty food-covered clothes. It HAS to be easier than the alternative when outnumbered, right?