>While I Was Out

>While I was away in Houston, my husband was left in charge of caring for a 16-year-old, a five-year-old, and a two-year-old. The 16-year-old pretty much takes care of herself. The 5 and 2-year-olds?

Not so much.

Anyone who’s left their kids with their husband for a few days knows that the prospect is a daunting one. Sure, the kids will get endless amounts of love from Daddy while you’re gone. But they will also get lots of candy. And McDonalds Happy Meals. And video game marathons. And if they get baths, those baths will feature a disturbing lack of soap or shampoo.

Your children will be dressed, but if your husband is anything like mine, they will be dressed in pajamas. Because, he will later claim, he can’t tell the difference between their pajamas and their regular clothes. And because, he will claim when his first claim is rejected, he opened one drawer in the kids’ six-drawer dresser, saw matching pants and shirts, and decided that he was looking at their entire wardrobe.

Yes, I am completely serious.

That’s why when I prepare to go out of town, I take every precaution I can. For my Houston trip, I found friends willing to take both children on Thursday and Friday until Hubs could pick them up after work. I laid out the kids’ clothes for each day. I wrote down a detailed schedule for each of them (which Hubs promptly “lost”). I sent a note to Punky’s teacher explaining that I was out of town and Daddy was in charge, knowing full well that she would read between the lines and understand when Punky came to school with three ponytails or a lunch packed full of cold french fries.

I was pleasantly surprised when my friends e-mailed me photos of my children playing outside on Friday- and both of them appeared to be properly dressed and fairly clean. I was even more surprised when I returned home Sunday afternoon and the house wasn’t any messier than on an average day when I have a writing deadline. I was so pleased that I decided to overlook the fact that Bruiser was dressed in his pajamas and had just accompanied Hubs to the gym (“He insisted on wearing them!” Hubs said. “He’s two,” I wanted to reply. “If I did what he insisted, our house would be stacked floor to ceiling with Legos and Hot Wheels and the pantry would be filled with candy!” I didn’t, though! I kept my mouth shut!).

But I knew there was a catch. There had to be a catch.

The next morning, Bruiser woke uncharacteristically early, at 5:30 am. “DADDY!” he shouted. “DAAAAA-DEEEEE!” Hubs leaped out of bed and I snuggled down in the covers with a smile, grateful that my time away had changed the morning alarm at our house from “MOMMM-EEEE!” to “DAAAAAA-DEEEE!”

The usual drill when Bruiser awakens too early is to fetch him a sippy cup full of warm milk. He drinks it in his crib and falls back asleep until sun-up. But while I was gone, that routine had changed. I was just dozing off when I felt a sharp kick in my back.

“DADDY,” Bruiser said loudly. “ISS MOMMY. MOMMY IS HERE.”

“What the-” I said, sitting up. Hubs had plunked Bruiser down in the middle of our bed. “HI MOMMY,” he said.

“He said he wanted to sleep with us,” Hubs said sheepishly. Oh no. Oh. Hell. No. This was unprecedented. I had never, ever, ever brought Bruiser into our bed, knowing full well that if I did, he’d never want to leave it.

“HI MOMMY,” Bruiser said again, smiling broadly.

“Drink your milk and go back to sleep,” I whispered, rubbing my eyes. “It’s still night time.” Dutifully, he laid down and started slurping. I turned over and fell back into my pillow. This was bad. This was very, very bad. But maybe he’d fall back asl-

“MOMMY.” I opened one eye. Bruiser’s face was an inch from mine.

“MOMMY.”

“What?”

“LOOK.” Bruiser pointed at the ceiling fan. “ISS LIKE A MONSTER.”

“No, Bruiser, it’s a ceiling fan,” I said. “Go back to sleep.” He took another thoughtful slurp from his cup.

“I NOT GO SLEEP,” Bruiser announced. “I PLAY WITH CARS.” He stood up. “MOMMY. DADDY. GET. UP. GET. UP. DADDY.”

“I’ll get up,” Hubs said guiltily.

“Have you been putting him in our bed while I was gone?” I asked.

“He was waking up so early,” Hubs explained. “I was really tired.”

And that is where he’s been ever since. Each morning between 5 am and 5:30, Bruiser stands up in his crib and shouts, “DAD-DEEEEEE! DAD-DEEEEE!” in an airhornesque tone. Hubs tries to convince him to drink his milk in his crib. Bruiser refuses. “I WANT SLEEP WITH EWE. I WANT SLEEP WITH EWE AND MOMMY.” And oh, I know you’re thinking, “I would just leave him in the crib so that he learns to go back to sleep on his own!” And we would. We really would. But he shares a room with his sister, who has hours and hours of school each day and desperately needs her sleep and can’t deal with an airhorn for a brother at five in the morning.

And so.

Bruiser ends up in our bed, kicking and pushing and going on about CARS and TRAINS and WHAT’S DAT SOUND, MOMMY? and OPEN EYES MOMMY DADDY and GET UP GET UP GET UP until one of us stumbles out of bed and takes the kid downstairs to start the day.

And I haven’t been this tired since he was an infant.

I never thought I’d say this, but you know? I think I would have rather gotten home to a filthy house and a daughter with dirt on her face.

And a boy who slept in his own crib every single night.