Our home is a little more chaotic than usual. There's a partially-finished new bathroom upstairs with plywood and tarp keeping the April showers from seeping in. Boxes of alleged child and dog-proof Pergo flooring are stacked up in the kitchen. We're a little squeezed in a mad dash of home improvements. At least the Ikea cordless blinds look nice in the windows.
You somehow benefit from the mess like an arms dealer during war. The idea that you and Matteo could share a room was short-lived. Now you get to share our bedroom so Matteo can have his own to fuss and teeth in. We tried Matteo in our bedroom first, but if he knows your Mom is in the room he needs to be within reach of the milk supply. You won the sibling battle for parent proximity.
But I tell you: Once the construction is done upstairs, your butt is moving upstairs.
Since this move into our bedroom, you've gotten on our sleep schedule. That is to say, you don't want to fall asleep until 9 or 10 p.m. That ain't working, sister. Add that to the fact that you suddenly deny midday naps. Who does that? You should be taking midday naps from now through college. On that note, you are acting a lot like a college student these days. You are a night owl and occassionally pee your pants.
We try to put you down for bed -- like responsible, desperate parents do -- around 7:30, but unconfined by the prison bars of a crib you jump out and jump all over our bedroom while we are trying to Netflix-binge the day away in the living room. Occasionally you jump out of the bedroom and proclaim "I'm awake!" Thanks, Captain Obvious.
Pause Netflix. Spend 15 minutes getting you to settle down again. Bribe. Walk back into living room. Fill up wine glass. Unpause Netflix. Let 20 minutes pass. Repeat.
On the flip side, in the morning I get to see your messy bedhead and mumbled request for chocolate milk. It almost makes it worth it. Not quite, but close.
Love always, Dad.