Well the good news is that it could always be worse – I suppose that’s always the good news. The bad news is that Anson is going out of town for three weeks. Three weeks. He’s traveling to San Francisco for a photo shoot that apparently needs his special brand of Anson-ness for three frick-frack-a-lackin weeks.
Restoration Hardware, you are dead to me.
(Not really. I still love you and your products but I’m kind of going to set up some boundaries about how much I’ll actually share my husband with you. Let’s talk. Call me.)
And so. This brings up a bevy of issues. First and foremost, how should I break this to Roan? That guy is in a space right now that is totally Dad-centric. It’s lovely. Roan wants to have more time, it’s never enough time, with his pop. And Anson is loving this attention from his eldest and well? I’m mostly the lady what moves the babies out of their way so the Good Times Dad + Ro train can keep on rollin’. As much as I love my big kid Roan, I do not have the same super power that Anson does with him, which is to make Roan always feel like he’s getting away with something. Apparently getting away with something – anything – is the most valuable currency ever for a seven, almost eight-year-old boy.
I offer more of a let’s-hug-and-kiss-and-tell-each-othe-we-love-each-other good time, which has its moments but let’s face it, is kind of whack for a seven, almost eight-year-old boy.
So the point is Anson is leaving in three days and we still haven’t broken it to young master Roan. I’m thinking we’ll tell him tomorrow. That should be fun.
Another hurdle in this is that the twin boys, up until now, have still been getting up once per night to be breastfed. It’s a smooth operation this. Anson and I have this routine down like whoa. I mean – we almost don’t even wake up. He gets one, I get one, we change their diapers in the dark, I sit in the recliner in their room, Anson hands them to me, I feed them and as soon as their done, I call Anson on my iPhone 4s (yes, still love it enough to call it by its God given full name), Anson comes in and takes them from me without waking them, places them in their cribs where they stick their bums up in the air, tuck their arms under their tummies, start to drool, and I zombie-walk back to bed. And this process, while super simple, actually does require two people. I can do it on my own but the modifications require a lot more jarring of the babies, and a lot more unintentional badness of waking them up.
So my big idea was to Night Wean them. Shep and Smitty turn one next week, and are old enough to sleep through the night with no more feedings. So I’m told. Night weaning is similar to Sleep Training (I can say “Sleep Training” now without getting lynched because I believe the co-sleepers have abandoned me altogether. I miss you guys – text me!). And this plan went into action for about one night before my two young tiny tyrants deviously got really bad colds. A sick baby is not a baby to mess with. Even for a Sleep Training person. So. I’ve actually been getting up with them more this past week instead of less and I do believe they are becoming accustomed to it. Awesome.
The Night Weaning will commence as soon as they are well – which is probably right when Anson leaves. That will be something I can look forward to. I love doing stuff like that all on my own. Boo. Hoo. For. Me.
But before I throw myself off this martyr’s cliff, I actually have to admit a few things.
First: my little sister married a superhero Air Force dude. Seriously he’s a superhero. He’s funny and good-looking and a Rescue Pilot. He also happens to be deployed away from his family for around eight months out of the year. And when I talk to my little sister and get an idea of how hard that actually is, I feel like a schmuck for complaining so. (Also: Thanks to all military people – seriously. That’s some serious hard stuff being away from your family so often.)
Second: I still have the best support system ever in place. My big sister Lori and all my friendly neighborhood buddies are ready at a moments notice to help with a baby, a meal, or a massage/pedicure (I’m throwing those in and hoping for them to come true. Too much?)
Even so, with the perspective and all that goes along with it, I couldn’t resist one last tug at my poor husband’s heart. He hates leaving us, even with the promise of uninterrupted sleep, catered meals, swimming pools, and movie stars. And when I mentioned to him, “Hey – I bet by the time you get back the babies will be walking!” he teared up, with real life tears. And that to me lets me know it’s actually all ok. Because he will miss us too. Balance.