For some reason, this past weekend we thought now would be a good time to kick the kids out of our bed. So we all moved upstairs into one giant room, and bought a toddler bed off the Craiglist for Dominic. I would describe its style as "cheap, institutional."
Brad thinks maybe if we hang a straight jacket from it, that would help. It would certainly help toward our nightweaning/bedweaning efforts. For me. I can't think of anything I'd like more at 3 am with a wakeful toddler than solitary confinement. But I digress.
What this is really about is how, three nights in to the new sleeping arrangements, I am exhausted. Sunday am, we woke up for the 9:30 Mass at 9:15. Brad had already left for the 8 am Mass and headed straight to work, so it was solo-holiness for me. I thought I'd keep our day on track by attending a 10 am at a different parish. We arrived woefully late (after the homily. for those of you who aren't Catholic (yet..aha) that equals a good thirty minutes late. At least.) and slipped loudly and clumsily into the last pew. Things were going ok (by which I mean no hymn books had been destroyed yet and only one potty run and mostly happy toddler noises, as opposed to angry toddler noises) when Dominic received an altar call from the Holy Spirit.
He wandered away from me to the end of pew, and I let him go. I thought...."He's being so quiet. This is fine. There is no one to distract behind us. Besides.....I know he wants me to chase him. I am not giving him the satisfaction." But he kept on edging....edging....out of the pew. He paused as I crouched, butt hovering over my seat, calculating how quickly I could reach him. Tumbleweeds rolled by. I'm pretty sure he cracked his knuckles. I gulped. Saloon doors creaked shut. A cloud passed in front of the sun blazing through stained glass windows. I knew I had to make a move. The second I stood up and made a grab, he was off like a shot, trucking down the aisle and laughing maniacally.
Kid is fast. Kid is especially fast when mama is in heels and v. v. short on sleep. I managed to catch him about three quarters of the way to the front of the church. By the time I got to him and swept him lovingly into my arms he was no longer laughing. His joy had given way to tears of sorrow, which then gave way to high pitched screeches of pure torture: "No!!!! Nooooo!!!!!!! No like!!!!!!!!!!!"
I could have been real mad. I could have probably cried. Instead, I had to try really, really hard not to laugh. I was going to make some sort of profound comment on holiness or life or something in this post but in my weakened, sleep deprived state, I cannot. All I can give you is the vision of Doms sprinting with his crazy mullet-curls bobbing in the early morning sunlight while emitting wild laughter as the church-goers looked on, thanking God that it was me and not them taking a trip down the aisle.