Operation Sleep Tight: Day 5

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Our first week with the new big-girl bed has offered up a full range of sleeping exploits. It is simply amazing to me how, some days she will go to sleep on the first try, without any problems at all and other days – like oh, say, WEDNESDAY – she will outright refuse to sleep at all.

Here are her stats for the week.

Fallen out of bed: 1
Found sleeping on the floor in her room: 1
Found crying in the hallway: 2
Fooled us into thinking she’s asleep when really she is going through the entire contents of a box of wipes: 1
Required Blue and White for sleep ritual: 0
Number of books required before bedtime: infinite “how bout dat wun?”

I have been pleasantly surprised by the fact that she hasn’t used her new “get out of bed free card” to spiral us into a civil war of sleep, and has instead given us a glimmer of hope that on some level she is willing to meet us half-way.

Thank You, Stella.

Stewed, Screwed and Tattoed

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Let’s talk tattoos. I have one. Celene has one. Steve has one. Rabia has one. Barboza has a couple. Kelly has one. My cousins Sean and Jo combined probably have about 600. Ivy has a couple. I think Brian even has one. And now, my Aunt Tess has one. It was her birthday present to herself – her 52nd birthday present to herself. Aunt Tess – the woman of supreme conservative sensibilities, and unerring practical decision making skills. Not only does she go out and get a tattoo, but she gets one that – as Celene put it – makes ours look like those of the wimpy heart-and-butterfly-persuasion.

In looking back, I realize my tattoo experience was borderline wholesome; no seedy tatoo parlor, no drunken impulsive decision to have a boyfriend’s name tattooed on a mammary, no alibi concocted to throw off the parentals as to what I was doing. In all actuality it was – in typical Natalie fashion – planned, organized and practically chaperoned.

In planning a trip out to see Ivy, I announced that Arizona would be the setting for the event that would forever go down in history as the day I became one of those kinds of girls, and got a tattoo. As would be expected, she was ecstatic to be my tour guide on such an important occasion. I was planning to stay an entire week and as such, ended up splitting my time between Ivy and Grandma Corrine. My time with Ivy was spent hanging out, going out and laying by the pool. My time with Grandma consisted of her kicking my ass at either Scrabble or Tennis, or both.

So anyway, Ivy calls me at Grandma’s house to get our plans set for our ‘field trip.’ I do my best to be evasive and cryptic on my end of the conversation, trying to not use any phrases that would indicate that I was planning the downfall of my status as a lady. Apparently, I’m not so good at that. Promptly after hanging up the phone with Ivy, Grandma begins to quiz me on our plans for the evening. Somehow, through my halted sentences and one-word answers, she had pieced together the gist of the conversation and proceeds to ask me point-blank: “Are you planning to get a tattoo?” What in the heck did I say on that phone conversation? My immediate instinct is to deny it, but being the Pollyanna I am, I fess up.

Me: “Um, well, yeah.”
G-ma: “Really?”
Me: “Uh, yeah, I kind of decided on it before I even got here.”
G-ma: “You know, I knew this woman once who worked at a bar. She had a really big tattoo on her arm.”

I’m not really sure what she was trying to convey with this statement. Was she trying to tell me that in her mind I would forever be associated with big-tattoo-bar-lady, or was this just her only other experience with a girl actually having a tatoo? So I countered back with the first thing that entered my brain:

Me: “Well, it’s not like Ivy doesn’t have two.”
G-ma: “She does?”

Oops. In all honesty, it wasn’t my intention to try to drag Ivy down with me. I really did think that Grandma knew about Ivy’s tattoos. She has one on her ankle, for God’s sake!

But, my grandma, being the good sport that she always is, decided that it was Ivy and I’s own decision if we wanted to burn in hell forever over this – which is why I probably decided to spill my guts in the first place. To know Grandma Corrine is to know that she is absolutely NOT the type that would ever guilt you or lay down any other sort of head trip. She’s pretty awesome that way.

The tattoo parlor that Ivy selected was pretty mild for the most part, and if memory serves, it – much like everything else in suburban Arizona – was in a strip mall of some sort. I walked in with only the idea that I wanted flowers, and that I wanted them in the small of my back. After parusing a bunch of highly detailed and mostly unappealing flash, I just decided I would commission my “guy” to draw something up for me. So, in a matter of about 5 minutes he had sketched something that approximated the patented Natalie doodle: a third-grade rendition of a squiggly vine of flowers and leaves. Perfect.

Next thing I knew he was slathering Vaseline all over it and “band-aiding” it with a brown paper towel. That was it. On the pain-o-meter it ranked somewhere between being pinched repeatedly and having my hair pulled (with ‘having my hair pulled falling on the “most painful” end of the spectrum). To celebrate my new debaucherousness, we went out dancing – taking time out every half hour or so to check my new puffy, red, glistening body art in the bathroom mirror.

Happy Birthday, Aunt Tess! May you never lose your sense of adventure!

Tattoo Hall of Shame:

Natalie

nat tattoo

Celene

celene tattoo

Steve

steve tattoo
…and our newest inductee:

Tess

tess tattoo

Operation Sleep Tight: Day 1

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After spending a full month talking up the new ‘big-girl’ bed, we were finally ready to initiate Stella into the world of cageless sleeping. Concurrent with our cheerleading to Stella on how great this new change would be, was the cheerleading we were giving ourselves as to how it was not going to completely ruin any chances we had of sleeping normally EVER AGAIN.

stella bed

The initiation sequence:

We tried to make sure we kicked off the morning right with a field trip to go pick out her sheets, blankets and comforter – even throwing in a bonus Dora pillow to sweeten the deal. So far, so good.

The transition:

All it takes is a couple of twists of the hex wrench and we have irrevocably change the course of history. After all, this isn’t just an issue of her being able to get out of her bed. It is her ability to get out of her bed, escape from her room, make her way into any room of the house and fashion instruments of destruction — all while we sleep. It is only a matter of time before I wake up to find Stella staring at me while holding a popsicle and the laptop computer.

Nap time, attempt #1:

stella and her bed

Much to our surprise, while trying to find homes for the stuffed animals that used to be wedged between the crib and the wall, Stella looks at me and says “Ni-Night, Mama.”

Me: “Are you ready for your nap?”
Stella: “Yeah”

No. Way. It can’t be this easy. This is a trick. It has to be.

Realizing that her sheets are still in the dryer, but not wanting to miss an opportunity, we throw together a makeshift sheet and blanket set and cross our fingers that this might actually work. Kisses, bottle, boo-white-sugar, and we are out the door.

Quiet.

Quiet

Quiet.

Ten minutes go by, and then I hear it. Shuffling. Footsteps. Jiggling of the doorknob. Then the knocking. Knock-knock-knock. “mAAAAAmaaaaa.” Damn.

I try leaving her alone to see if it will take. Nope.

Attempt 1: aborted.

Nap time, attempt #2:

See Nap time, attempt #1, except with the added bonus that instead of jiggling the handle, she figures out how to let herself out of the room. She saunters into the kitchen, “Hi Mama!” It’s one of those moments where you want to be all parental, but all you can do is laugh.

Nap Time, attempt #3:

After repeated meltdowns throughout the afternoon, and self-admitted tiredness on behalf of her highness, we go for attempt #3. We are optimistic. We gather our stuff, head in and try again. She looks so adorably cute tucked into her new bed. I cross my fingers and hope for the best.

Quiet.

Quiet.

Quiet.

This is about the point where I realize we need to install a peephole in her bedroom. What is she doing in there? Then I hear it: Shuffling. Footsteps. Jiggling of the doorknob. And knocking. Instead of leaving her to her own devices, I decide to try to help things along a little. I lay down with her, talk to her about her big-girl bed and try to get her mellow enough to actually fall asleep without trying to escape. It takes a while, but I do it! Her eyes begin to droop, her bottle falls to the side…SUCCESS! I slink out and Steve and I share a high-five, and then we wait. What happens when she wakes up?

Mission accomplished:

Flash forward an hour and a half. The unmistakable sound of a doornob jiggle emanates from the hallway. Before actually allowing her to open it we greet her at the door. Deep down, I guess we are just hoping that the last time she got it open it was just a fluke and that she doesn’t actually remember how. The longer we can keep her from freely running amok while we sleep, the better.

stella and her bed

And so ends the afternoon.

And so begins the evening…

Gag me with a spoon

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Each day brings a new little something that our clever girl figures out out how to do. In some cases this is cute and charming – other times not so much. Let’s look at a couple of examples:

Cute & Charming:

  • Poses down after she takes her vitamins, showing you how strong she is.
  • Likes having her blankets fashioned as a cape so she can fly around the back yard.
  • Can sing almost the entire first verse of Rock-A-Bye Baby from memory (Wock a bee bee tee top).
  • Highly proficient at using her computer (pooter).

Not so much:

  • Eats Play Dough.
  • Has learned how to gag herself – practices regularly with string cheese.
  • Spends her unsupervised time familiarizing herself with the contents of the junk drawer (which she can barely peer into on tiptoes), and on more than one occasion has emerged from the kitchen carrying scissors.
  • Has taught herself how to dangle from things. Most recently: one of the shelves of the cheap Target bookshelf we bought for her room.

Reality Check: Clever. Cute. Dangerous. Not even 2 years old.

Chicken Roasted with Tomatoes Potatoes, and Olives

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This is a pretty basic roasted chicken recipe, but it makes for good show when entertaining. This should probably go without saying, but USE GOOD TOMATOES. And if you don’t know if it is good, let me tell you this: there is no such thing as a good Safeway tomato. Period.

This recipe can be adapted for lighter fare by using boneless, skinless breasts instead.

Adapted from Gourmet Everyday

roasted chicken

Serves 2
[Scales nicely.]

7 garlic cloves
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 large lemon, thinly sliced crosswise
1 whole chicken breast with skin and bone (1 lb), halved
1 lb small (2-inch) red potatoes, quartered
4 plum tomatoes, halved lengthwise
10 Kalamata or other brine-cured black olives, pitted and sliced lengthwise
1 tablespoon fresh rosemary

Preheat ove to 450 degrees and lightly oil a 13 X 9 inch shallow baking pan.

Mince and mash 2 garlic cloves to a paste with salt. Whisk together garlic paste, lemon juice, and 2 tablespoons oil with salt and pepper to taste in small bowl. Make 2 beds of overlapping lemon slices in pan and put a chicken breast half, skin side up, on each bed. Brush chicken generously with some garlic-lemon mixture and season with salt and pepper.

Toss potatoes, tomatoes, remaining 5 garlic cloves, and remaining tablespoon olive oil in a bowl until coated well. Arrange vegetables around chicken and sprinkle with olives and rosemary.

Roast in middle of oven 15 minutes and brush with reamining garlic-lemon mixture. Roast 10 to 15 minutes more, or until a meat thermometer inserted into chicken registers 175 degrees.

Discard lemon slices and serve chicken with vegetables, spooning any pan juices over them.