Everyone knows that Sunday is a day for leisure. Sundays should be spent recovering from all your weekend fun, or perhaps watching some sort of sporting contest on the television.
Sigh….wouldn’t that be nice?
In the past, I’ve mentioned how parenthood hasn’t made it easy for me to watch Eagles games. This past weekend, I learned that Sunday can be quite difficult even when my favorite team isn’t playing.
The difficulties began on Saturday night when Mrs. Cutter and I attended the 50th birthday party of one of our friends. (By the way, it’s extremely frightening that we actually have a 50-year-old friend.)
I was determined to attend the event because the birthday boy’s wife decided that the party should include a roast. I was asked to be one of the roasters because apparently making fun of people is something that I’m skilled at.
Most of the other roasters were relatively tame. On the other hand, I went full “Comedy Central” style, attacking the other roasters and the guest of honor with jokes that attempted to straddle the line between funny and inappropriate.
Some people thought it was hilarious. Others may not speak to me for a while. I’m actually quite okay with that, because the following day sapped my will to ever go out on a weekend night again.
Non-parents don’t understand the problem with going out at night. It isn’t that we can’t stay up and hang with everyone. The problem is that we don’t have the following day to recover from it.
Before I had kids, I could go out on a weekend night and spend the next day lounging around the house. That’s not quite as easy with children. Children seem to have this innate sense of when their parents had fun without them, and then try their best to gain some revenge.
There were indications of the impending trouble as soon as we got home.
We’ve been attempting to transition the twins from sleeping in their individual rock-and-play cradles to a full-sized crib. Thus far, the transition is not going smoothly.
Given the additional freedom of movement that the crib provides, they are able to squirm free from their swaddles. Unfortunately, they have no idea what to do with this hard-fought-for freedom and soon begin to cry.
Cribs provide freedom. Horrible, horrible freedom. (Image source)
We returned home a little before 11 PM (We’re real night owls, right?), and when we checked on them, they had already half-escaped. It seemed likely that the first crying session was imminent.
Since they were half-awake anyway, we decided to feed them in hopes that they would then sleep until morning.
We were wrong. VERY WRONG.
Despite being fed, they continued to squirm, break free, and then cry out. We tried to soothe them with either a pacifier or an attempt at re-swaddling, but nothing quieted them for long.
At around 4:30, they were clearly awake and wanted to be fed. We realized if we wanted to salvage any sleep, we would have to feed them again and put them in their rock-and-plays. Despite being returned to their more confining environment, they still woke up a couple more times.
Like I said, they REALLY wanted to make sure we never went out without them again.
I’d like to say that the day got easier after that.
Later that morning, Mrs. Cutter took the Cutlet to her ballet class, leaving me to watch the twins.
For some reason, I thought that if I put them down for a nap, they might give me some time to myself. Once again, I was incorrect in my assessment of their desire to sleep peacefully.
Stairs: The greatest workout tool known to man. (Image source)
I tried to get in a brief workout in our basement, but every few minutes, I was interrupted by the sound of crying. Apparently Cujo didn’t have any intention of settling down for a nap.
I suppose that going up and down the stairs so many times qualifies as a workout, right?
I had (sort of) gotten in a workout, and the Cutlet had attended her class. That’s a pretty good agenda for a Sunday, and we should have been good just calling it a day after that, right?
Not when Target is having a sale on diapers and formula. Given our diaper and formula needs, when they go on sale at Target, we pretty much have to drop everything and stock up:
Big shout out to Hyperbole and a Half for this meme.
Fortunately, the twins were actually calm and slept through most of our trip. That peace would not last, as Cujo resumed his inconsolable ways shortly after returning home.
WARNING: The following section will discuss a major bowel movement by one of my children. If you don’t like poop stories, you’d probably be better off reading this post from last month. It doesn’t involve poop at all.
This fussiness was not a welcome development since I would once again be left alone with the twins that evening. Mrs. Cutter and the Cutlet had tickets to see a live performance of The Little Mermaid, so it was up to me to calm the boy down.
Eventually, I was able to get him settled down (Actually, I really didn’t do anything. He pretty much got tired from crying so much and passed out.) just in time for the Cutlass to wake up crying.
It was much easier to determine the source of her angst. It was close to feeding time and she was hungry. I gave her a bottle and settled her down, only to have Cujo reawaken and demand a bottle of his own. (Yay, twins!)
He was still upset after eating, but thankfully he calmed down a bit once I put him in his swing in front of the television. I felt slightly bad about letting TV serve as a babysitter, but I had things to do, and I wanted to watch the football game. (DON’T JUDGE!) Meanwhile, his much calmer sister sat in the kitchen and watched me as I prepared dinner.
I later realized that I was doing a splendid job of reinforcing gender stereotypes when I brought the girl into the kitchen to “help” with dinner while I let the boy sit and watch football.
Once dinner was prepared and on the table, I moved the Cutlass’ chair next to the table. All I had to do was grab Cujo so that we could all sit down together for a nice “family” meal.
I reached down to lift him up from his swing, and I suddenly realized why he had settled down. He had needed to poop. And now, he didn’t need to poop anymore.
There’s scientific research that shows that the human brain is actually better equipped to deal with a major tragedy rather than minor ones. That’s why people tend to handle their house exploding with an odd sense of calm, while getting a $10 ticket can send them into a fit of rage.
I’ve found that if a little bit of poop seeps out from a diaper and gets on my hands or clothes, I’ll get very annoyed and frustrated. But when my son looks like he’s been dipped in a jar of mustard, I’m able to calmly assess and handle the situation.
I’ll give Cujo a lot of credit as he was unnaturally calm throughout the entire cleaning process. He probably just felt relieved to have all of that out of his body.
After I had cleaned him, there wasn’t enough soap in the world to wash my hands. I think I had the water turned up so hot that I burned off a few layers of skin.
Once we were both clean, I was able to bring Cujo downstairs, place him next to his sister and finally eat my dinner. (Your guess is as good as mine as to how I still had any appetite at this point.)
That evening, after the twins were successfully put to sleep and our washing machine was busy churning away, Mrs. Cutter returned home. Upon seeing the twins’ bath tub out, she asked me, “Oh did you give them a bath? That was ambitious.”
I just kind of stared at her for a few seconds. Ambitious wasn’t exactly the word I would use.