In the wee, small, dark hours of this morning I awoke to the sound of Violet complaining, loudly, in her room. She wasn't crying, just bitching. When I got to her bed, she was sitting up and staring intently at the pink, plaid pattern on her flannel sheets. Vi pointed at the design as if to say, "Why plaid Mommy?"
Me: What is it?
Violet: whining
Me: I don't speak whine.
Violet: exaggerated whining
Me: Use your words.
Violet: wounded animal sounds
I gave up trying to plumb the depths of her mind for evidence of plaid fears and took her to use the potty. The change in scenery usually shakes her from her weird dreams, so she can get back to sleep. Of course, removing her from bed means that I will have to endure the torturous rearrangement of the babies. Violet must have Knuffle Bunny (you know Mo Willems, right?), Baby Rojo and Honey Bear all in her arms. All of their faces must be visually accessible and even with Violet's head. No one is permitted to do this for her. Violet must arrange the menagerie herself and then she directs the placement of the blankets over herself and the trio of lovies. There is a bizarre precision involved here that only my OCD husband can appreciate or understand. When I am tired and suffering from insomnia (as I have been lately), the fuse on my Mommy Bomb is very short. Violet's malcontent act is very hard for me to handle without resorting to clenching my jaw and saying the mean things that my cave woman brain pushes to the surface in the eerie glow of an Ikea nightlight ( a light that simultaneously frightens and comforts my persnickity child). I managed to hold it together this morning, largely by imagining the blog post I could write. Words, are my salvation...
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