Lockout

This morning was a bit of a whirlwind. I had to tackle some work today, so I was getting Marshall ready for daycare. Off with the dirty diaper and PJs! On with the shirt and pants! In with breakfast! Let's brush our teeth! Prepare Marshall's diaper bag! Wrestle him into his snowsuit! Scramble into my coat and runners! Lock the doors! Snap Marshall in his car seat! Start the car! Get out the garage door! Push the button and watch the door close behind us!

Here we go!

I saw the Hydro-Québec truck on the street on the way to the daycare, but didn't think much of it. It was only after I stripped off Marshall's snowsuit and kissed him goodbye, when the power zapped off, did I remember last week's automated message from the power company: "Please note that your power will be shut off from 8:30 to 10:30 a.m. for scheduled maintenance."

Ohhhh nooooo. Am I locked out?

I rushed home, relieved to see a few porch lights on as I rolled down the street. Could the power still be on at my house? I pulled in the driveway, mashed my finger repeatedly on the garage door remote. No dice.

I vividly recalled locking the doors before leaving, but I thought, Maybe, just maybe, I just imagined it. I clambered up the stairs to the front door and jiggled the doorknob. Locked.

I scaled the snowed-over steps to the backyard and hoisted myself up over the back gate, remembering how inflexible my legs are. I walked carefully through the backyard, avoiding the dog-doo mines. I tried the patio door. Locked, too. The dog was going berserk inside. "It's just me!" I yelled at him. I considered teaching him how to flip up the lock on the sliding door. That would be a way to kill time, I guessed.

I tried the basement bathroom window for the hell of it, wondering how I'd be able to wedge my body through the small opening. One pane slid easily; the other three were locked. Take that, burglars! Take that, Amy!

I trudged back to the gate, hauling my body over the fence once more. I saw my neighbour reading the paper next door. I prayed she didn't see me teetering unladylike on the gate. I headed back to the front of the house.

What to do? What to do?

I didn't want to take the car anymore. It had made a funny noise earlier that morning and I wanted Jon to check it out (too dangerous for ME, but my husband can drive it!). So, I set off on foot to the only shopping mall in town. I use the term "mall" loosely. You can count the number of stores on a hand-and-a-half. On the way, I felt the crispy ends of my ponytail, remembering that my last haircut was 10 long months ago.

I made a beeline to the hair salon. It was open! Hooray! And they had room for me this morning! Double hooray! I quickly explained that I was locked out the house and apologized for my drab garb. After all, I had intended to come home and work. "Thankfully, I brushed my teeth before leaving the house!" I confessed. The receptionist laughed worriedly.

I was a little surprised to be paired up with a male hairdresser. Don't get me wrong. I lived in the city for close to a decade and have had my hair cut by guys before. I just don't recall seeing a man in our quaint little hair salon--ever!

"How long have you been working here?" I asked him curiously.

"Since November," he replied.

"I don't ever remember seeing a male hairdresser here," I said incredulously. "Do some women seem surprised?"

"Yeah," he admitted. "Some people are."

My comment must have rubbed him the wrong way, because I have never had such a quiet haircut. But, HEY! I am the mother of a toddler. I didn't mind the silence.

"I really want to remove the damaged ends," I said, "But if you want to get creative and add more layers, go ahead!" I said, flashing a big, encouraging smile.

He snorted.

Okay.

I observed the leopard-print dye job in the young hairdresser's close-cropped hair. He sniffled repeatedly as he snipped off the dead ends. The mother in me wanted to snatch a crumpled tissue from my pocket and give his nose a dab.

I finally saw him smile when I handed him a tip.

Thirty-five dollars and a fluffy new 'do later, I pulled on my coat and asked what time it was.

"Ten-oh-three," he replied.

Not bad, I thought. The lockout is almost over!

I headed back home, grateful that the sun was warming up the street. As I turned the corner, I saw the Hydro truck heading out of the neighbourhood. That put a spring in my step! I hurried home. I gave the garage door opener another try and breathed a sigh of relief. I'm in!

So, it wasn't the end of the world. I found out my house isn't easy to break into. I got some fresh air. AND I got a new haircut to boot... but I guess I should find that handy house key.

And now, well, it's time for me to put my nose back to the grindstone... after a cup of hot cocoa.

Long-term Good, Short-term Struggle

I waited until Valentine's Day was over to break my son's heart.

A few weeks ago, I put my foot down in the name of sleep. Marshall is almost seventeen months old now. That's nearing toddlerhood! Until recently, he depended on me to rock him to sleep. And often, the simple act of gently laying my sleeping boy onto his crib mattress would wake him in a fit of hysterics. He'd leap back up like a possessed clown-shaped bop bag, screams and tears and arms outstretched for Mama.

I admit, I'd often cry, too. And I'd cave. I'd pick up my miserable little boy and miserably rock him back to sleep, only to repeat the whole ordeal after trying to lay him back down in his crib.

For the love of sleep!

Up until now, I refused to let my boy "cry it out." He was just a babe. He needed his mother. And for a good part of the past year or so, I didn't mind rocking him back to sleep. But lately, Jon and I suspected that he was playing us. What gave it away was his way of crying from his crib, then waiting to hear if we were on our way, then wailing with even more vigor if we weren't shaking a leg to his liking.

Do you know what sixteen months of interrupted sleep does to a woman? Ask my husband. It isn't pretty.

Friends, family members and the trusty Internet suggested the popular Five-Ten-Fifteen method:

1. You make sure your baby is as comfortable as can be (bum changed, bottle fed, fever-free, warm and cozy--but not too warm).

2. You place him in his crib, give him a kiss and a hug, wishing him a good night and reminding him that you'll be right here if he needs you.

3. Then you brace yourself for the wail.

4. You wait out of sight in the hallway for five terribly long minutes.

5. You go back in the room and hug and kiss and console.

6. Then you shuffle your ass back out of the room for TEN intolerable minutes.

7. Repeat Step 5.

8. Leave the room for another FIFTEEN minutes.

Nobody ever told me what Step 9 is, or if there is a Step 9. Luckily, I have never had to worry about Step 9.

[Tangent: On an impulse, Jon had picked up a video baby monitor. I had poo-pooed it at the time, reminding him of the day he brought home a heart-shaped tub (which is still stored away, by the way). This purchase on a whim has actually panned out.]

That night, once I reached Step 6, I guiltily trudged back to our bedroom and got into bed, where Jon spooned me supportively. We watched our boy on the TV monitor and kept an eye on the alarm clock. He was standing up, grasping the crib rails and crying his little heart out, which broke our hearts. Then, around the seven-minute mark, something happened. He lay on his pillow! And he fell asleep!

Sigh, on one hand, he did cry himself to sleep, but on the other... he fell asleep, all by himself.

In the weeks following our new bedtime routine, there have been a few rocky nights. However, the incident-free nights far outnumber the sleepless ones. And something amazing happened last night (non-parents may not find this particularly awesome, but--seriously--I think I cried a little): I placed him in his crib and he cozied into his pillow without a whimper. I wished him goodnight and tiptoed out of the room. He didn't make a peep until the next morning.

(I know, it's ironic, but) Sigh, on one hand, he fell asleep, all by himself, but on the other... it's one more thing he can do without my help.

Long-term, uninterrupted sleep is a great thing. Short-term, we're all getting used to Marshall's new ability.