June Cleaver Nirvana

I exposed one of my areas of motherhood ignorance yesterday.

Several of you caught it. Hey thanks...I have been feeling inadequate in this area since Ryan was born.

I was reminded of my cluelessness in this area recently when reading Manic Mommy's job description. I read this list thinking, "I am doing OK in every area except for this one".

I have read parenting books. I have researched. I have spent hours in thought. Still, no answer.

So I offer up to you, wise and dear readers, my burning question of motherhood:

Does it really matter what weight pajama you dress your child in if you keep your house at exactly the same temperature year around?

*gasp*

*ahem*

*avert your eyes*

Yes, I have just admitted that I have no idea whether the boys should be in footy fleece or shorts and t-shirts.

No book has addressed this. The only reference they make is something like...just dress your baby in one more layer then you are wearing.

FINE! But I sleep in shorts and a camisole and under two blankets.

Since babies can't sleep with blankets, do my blanket layers count? So would that be 2 layers or 4?

What if I throw off one blanket during the night? Should I rush in and strip a layer off of him? So would that be 1 layer or 5?

What if I start the ceiling fan in the room during the night? Should I turn on his fan and add a layer (or not) or leave the fan off and subtract a layer? So would that be sleeping naked or packed so tightly into multiple pajama layers that the poor child can't bend his arm to place thumb in mouth?

I live in Texas. During the summer it is hot. But we don't like the house to be hot so we run the air conditioner. Texas winters are mild. But we have very thin blood and run the heater if needed. So really the temperature is the same every night.

To prove my schizophrenia on this issue I took the above picture tonight (see the Stars Hockey in the background?) where Ryan is warm and cozy from head to foot and Rhett is sporting shorty wife beaters. How did I get here?

Oh, did I mention that Ryan won't wear anything else and Rhett will scream unmercifully if his "orange jammies" are dirty. That is my thought process. My parenting book will be in stores soon...

***
Please note that the title is from one of the greatest pajama resources of all time, Sandra Boynton's Pajama Time. I can't leave you hanging so let me finish so you can get on with your day:

Now all around the room in one big line,
wearing our pajamas and looking so fine.
It's Pajama Time!

Hop in the bed. Turn out the light.
You can have a party in your dreams tonight.
IT'S PAJAMA TIME!
(Hush, Hush)
It's Pajama Time!
(Hush, Hush)
it's pajama time.
(shhhhhhhhhhhhh.)

Yankees vs. Red Sox.
Tom vs. Jerry.
Pepsi vs. Coke.
Holly vs. her toy closet.

Nirvana Stadium, March 27, 2008:

Advantage Closet.
Closet: 1
Holly: 0

Nirvana Stadium, March 30, 2008:

Holly ties it up.
Closet: 1
Holly: 1

Nirvana Stadium, May 6, 2008:

Advantage Closet.
Closet: 2
Holly: 1

Nirvana Stadium, May 6, 2008 (double header):

Holly ties it up.
Closet: 2
Holly: 2

Holly has requested an investigation into Team Closet. The playing field does not seem to be level. It appears that Team Closet often has too many men on the field:

Dear Nirvana Reader,
There has been a little revolt at Holly's house. As you know, some have complained, some have whined and some have threatened. I am here to offer an ultimatum.

I am Holly's range.

I have noticed something. I have a lot of time on my hands to observe because I am rarely in use. In fact, reflecting Holly's fuzzy slippers in this picture is the most work I have done all week.

It's not that Holly stays out of the kitchen. She is ALWAYS there. She uses other appliances. The microwave and dishwasher seem to be in perpetual motion. She also has her favorites. The coffee maker.

The computer. I know this isn't actually a kitchen appliance, but she doesn't seem to grasp that.

I have to hand it to her. The girl can make some toast.
and some more toast.
This is hard for me to admit. This hurts me to the core. This is why other appliances mock me. This is why drastic measures are required. This is no joke. This is another appliance that sees more action then I do:
I know it seems incomprehensible that a barnyard waffle maker is in use more than I. Do you feel my pain? Do you see why action is my only choice? Where did it all go so wrong? Why me? Is she insane?

If I am not used consistently (once daily x 14 consecutive days) over the next two weeks, I am posting myself on eBay:


Stainless steel range. Pristine condition. Very little use.

Crying for attention,
Holly's Range

I am linking to my fabulous friend Marcy at the Glamorous Life to show how absolutely fabulous my house looks (if you keep all the closet doors shut) for this week's G.I.R.L. party!






Dear Nirvana Reader,

I come to you. Not because others have. I come to you to tell my story of havoc. I come to you to not for sympathy. Bah Humbug on sympathy. I don't need any therapeutic talk. My life delights me.

I am Holly's toy closet.

I am situated next to the living room in a convenient location under the stairs. My expanse is great. My ceilings are angled. Holly designed me with 5 shelves filled with wicker baskets and enough space to accommodate books standing in a row. She covered my concrete floor with a fluffy play-friendly rug. Because of my handy location I am an obvious catch-all. When the doorbell rings...my door opens and toys get thrown into me at a pace that would rival a major league pitch. That makes sense. It is good to have a place to hide things temporarily.

Every once in awhile my perky hostess takes an afternoon to sort me out. She pulls all the toys out into the entry. Sorts them by shape, color and age suitability. She sends 80% of my contents to who knows elsewhere and then packs me naively back with the wicker baskets and Brother P-touch labels into pristine condition.

This girl. She isn't just a half-full kind of person. She is a "it really looks like it might be 3/4 full and I am going to sip slowly and enjoy it, but I am sure there is more" kind of person. What a load of optimistic crap.

Let us have a reality check. THREE BOYS. MILLIONS OF TOYS. Three boys whose millions of toys have millions of pieces. Millions of pieces, Oh the joy! Boys. Toys. Pieces. Joy!

So I ask what is the point of the toy sort? Why does she waste her time? She doesn't know my nature. I live on chaos. Messy is my middle name...Holly's MESSY Toy closet (I guess Messy is my first name). Whatever. What do I care. I am a mess. I can take a pristine toy sort and turn it into toy hell in less then 15 minutes. Don't think I can't. Don't underestimate me. Let me prove it:


Boys. Toys. Pieces. JOY!

Oh, the sight of me just makes me happy. But what tickles me even more is the horrified gasp and naughty word muttering that happens every time Holly opens the door. Now that is worth my existence. Don't pity me. I am in a good place.

Lovingly,
Holly's messy toy closet of the devil
P.S. Where are Maisy's pants?

Dear Nirvana Reader,

I need to tell my story. I come to you because others have. They reported back that venting may not have changed HER ways, but was therapeutic.

I will start with a little about myself. I am a DaysAgo Timer. I attach by magnet or suction cup to various items and keep track of how many days ago you opened it, watered it, packaged it, etc. I am super handy. I am super cute. I am ingenious.

I was featured on Oprah and in Real Simple magazine the same week. That is where Holly saw me. That is where my troubles began. She zipped onto my website, ordered me and 10 of my closest friends and 3 days later we were hers. She distributed my friends as gifts and kept me.

She seemed nice enough. She was perky. She enthusiastically embraced me and my mission. She popped me onto a can and put me in the fridge.

47 days later she cleaned out the fridge, disposed of the can I was occupying and reset me onto another can.

64 days later she cleaned out the fridge, disposed of the can I was occupying and reset me onto another can.

83 days later she cleaned out the fridge, disposed of the can I was occupying and reset me onto another can.

Then I didn't hear from her. At. All. Hello? Hello? Hello? Is Holly out there? It's cold and dark (just when the door is closed--the light REALLY does go off) in here. It has been so long.

The light goes on. The light goes off. The light goes on.

She notices me. She picks me up. She takes me out of the fridge. She stares at me:
Yes, I am stuck on "99". It has been so long that I have lost track of time. I know I am a timer. I get that. I was only programmed for 2 digits people. I was totally unprepared to live this nightmare.

So an indescribable number of days later she cleaned out the fridge, disposed of the can I was occupying and reset me onto another can.

Are you kidding me? My life is ground hog day.

Chillingly yours,
Holly's DaysAgo timer

P.S. Did I just hear Holly announce to the boys that they were having pizza buns for lunch? She must be stopped.

Dear Nirvana Reader,
This is a plea for help. I could be beautiful. I am neglected. I can prove it. This is my life:

8:00 am:Please don't make me tell you what meal yesterday the Frito is from. No one swept me last night. No one swept me this morning.

10:30 am:Yes, now I am enduring not only REAL food, but faux food as well. Please notice that the Frito remains. It is like an itch I cannot scratch.

1:15 pm:Great. Smashed goldfish were added from lunch. And the stickers. I never can be free from the stickers.

4:00:Yes, the wide shot is better to see the real picture of what is happening here. See that marker? Non-washable. She is insane. 3 boys. non-washable marker. Do you see what I am dealing with here people?

6:30 pm:Whew. Progress. First time all day that progress is being made. Toys picked up...well, actually scooted to the adjoining concrete floor (don't get him started) to make room for the broom...ah, I can feel the joy already.

7:45:This is getting a bit irritating. The broom is right here. Please. Please use it.

9:00 pm:Are you kidding me? It's getting quiet around here. No one loves me. She just walks by. Leaving the broom here is just evil. It is like she is mocking me.

6:15 am:I just spent the whole night dreaming of that broom. Bet she just puts it away and I live like this through another day. For the love of Frito's, could you just humor me and pick that ONE up?

Pleadingly,
Holly's kitchen floor