A cry pierced the night. I jerked awake, blood pounding, adrenalin rushing through my veins. My eyes flew open, and a pale green glow cast shadows on the far wall. The cry rose in pitch; broke off; resumed, with added fury. A low moan of despair joined the sound, and I realized belatedly that it came from my own throat.

I clutched the covers to my chest and squeezed my eyes shut, wishing it to be a bad dream, but the wail persisted until I could deny it no longer. I rose, movements jerky, as if guided by the shaky hands of an elderly puppeteer. I reached for him, my mind screaming at me to stop, to leave him, to climb back in bed and bury myself in the covers. But my heart said otherwise.

I cradled him to my chest. “One day,” I whispered, and even I could hear the wistful note, touched with a bit of madness, “one day, you will sleep. All. Night. Long. And that day, I will rejoice, as no other mother has before me.”

With four kids under the age of 6, a day when you accomplish anything is a good day. A day when you get to go do something fun? Bonus. So we were pretty excited, last weekend, at the idea of going to the Neighborhood Festival, complete with greasy food (which I would, sadly, have to avoid), booths manned (or womanned) by purveyors of superfluous toys and unnecessary trinkets (plastic lightsaber or hand-crafted, rose-scented aromatherapy candle, anyone?), and, of course, the jumpy-things™. You know, the massive inflated castle, or beach scene, or hot air balloon, where you can climb in and jump, jump, jump, until you’re out of breath and sending kids flying through the air because you’re four times their weight and the attendant is giving you funny looks because you said you were just going in to make sure your two-year-old didn’t get scared, but really, you’re probably over the weight limit and–

Er, no wait, maybe that’s just me.

But, um, anyway, those jumpy-things™, yeah, my kids love ‘em. Kids. Yes, exactly. And, anyway, that other? Um, not that it happened, but it was really at our church. Or, it would have been. If it had happened.

Which it didn’t.

At the Neighborhood Festival (no, that’s not what it’s really called, but that gets the point across, yes?), I think things were a little more regulated, and I don’t think adults were allowed in. Plus, you had to pay to get into them, and it looks a little less impulsive and a lot more pathetic when you actually buy a ticket. But, regardless of whether or not I could get into them, it should be clear that the jumpy-things™ are a pretty strong attraction for my family.

You can, therefore, imagine my family’s collective disappointment when we arrived at the festival to find the booths being packed up, the artery-clogging food wagons’ windows shut, and all of the jumpy-things™ melted into sad little puddles of fabric on the ground. (There may, or may not, have been one or two sad little puddles of something else in my family after that, as well.)

You see, thanks to a stunning restaurant misadventure, we arrived at the festival not at 7-7:30, as we had intended, but a little after nine o’clock. So, in retrospect, it wasn’t all that shocking that things were closing down just as we got there. Disappointing, yes, but not a huge surprise.

There was, however, still some activity going on. Some scurrying to and fro, some ropes being stretched from one side to the other, some people setting up blankets and chairs and settling in. And then, with a whisper here and a mutter there, we found out what was going on.

F-I-R-E-W-O-R-K-S.

“What did you just spell?” my five-year-old Birdie asked. Chirped, even. “Do we have to leave? Did we miss everything? Why did we get here too late? Are we going home now?”

And that, my friends, is just a small sample of the constant stream of questions that little girl can spout. It is truly exhausting keeping up with her.

But I digress.

We ran into some friends of my in-laws and found out from them that the f-i-r-e-w-o-r-k-s were supposed to start at 9:00. As it was already 9:30, that meant they could start any minute. Or in thirty minutes. Or never, with our luck. But the security guards in golf carts chasing teenagers off of the lawn strongly suggested that the last scenario was not the case, so we felt it was safe to move beyond spelling.

“Fireworks? They’re going to set off fireworks? Where are they going to be? Are we going to get to see them? Where are we going to sit?” Chirp, chirp. Chirp.

When my Birdie paused so I could catch my breath, I ushered her and the Imp over to a clear spot on the ground, where the three of us settled down. My husband stood next to us with the tiny Lion in his stroller, and my in-laws stood behind us with the Bumblebee.

And then it was time.

And my poor kids were traumatized.

Much closer than I think any of us initially realized, the trail of the first firework shot up into the sky, with a pop and a whine. It burst into a brilliant flower of sparkling color. My sweet little two-year-old Bumblebee laughed, ahhhed, and applauded, bright eyes shining with wonder at the beauty that filled the night sky.

BOOM! Her grin turned to a scream of horror as an explosion rocked the field, bursting in our ears and pounding in our chests like a gunshot at close range.

A silver starburst blossomed in the darkness above us, and my baby girl clapped her hands wildly and tried to smile while terrified tears streamed down her cheeks.

Confusion, shock, and terror filled her little face as the crack of gunpowder thundered through the clearing, signaling the beginning of the end of the fireworks show for her. A few minutes later, my in-laws ended her torment and took her back to the car.

Then I realized my four-year-old Imp was also crying out, shaking and cowering at my side.

At this point, I admit, I thought to myself, “What the heck is wrong with these kids?” I mean, fireworks, well, they’re supposed to be loud. Everyone knows that. The BOOM! that accompanies each shower of sparks is part of the beauty. Part of the experience. But, okay, it was loud. Scary. I guess I could see that.

My Birdie was enjoying them, but as soon as she realized the others were crying…well, I’ll let you guess. I found myself with a lap full of screaming kiddos, trying to enjoy the fireworks and see to it that they enjoyed them, also. So with each firework, I anticipated the explosion, and shouted “BOOM!” in their ears and crunched my arms around them with a big bounce.

For the record, folks, with little ones that age, don’t start it unless you plan to finish it. I got to spend almost the whole fireworks show shouting “BOOM!” and bouncing 75 lbs of squealing kiddo on my lap. But it was worth it – the older two, at least, got over their fear and had fun. And, truth be told, so did I, even if my body pointed out to me for the next few days that maybe I should have sat in a different position. Every once in a while, it’s nice to remember that at some point in the distant past, I was a kid, too.

Still, next time, we take chairs. And earplugs.

Hello world! Today I'm trying something new: mobile blogging. Because with four small children (that's right, FOUR, not three!) sitting down at a computer once I get home from work is a thing of the past. As is going to the bathroom by myself.

I'm hoping this will allow me to post more frequently, even if the posts are short, with no formatting to speak of. That's better than nothing, right?

Right?

And, just for fun (also so I can see how it looks), I'll add a few pictures.

First, the Birdie and the Bumblebee, who are 5.5 and just DAYS away from 2;

Second, the Imp, who just turned 4;

And third, our little Lion, who is almost 4.5 months old.

I've had three months with my little Bumblebee.  Three months already...how does the time go by so quickly?  And I have discovered something amazing:  my Baby Bee is a prodigy.  And also the happiest baby alive (as long as you are paying attention to her).  And, incidentally, they go together.

A few days after my little Bee was born, people started telling me she had smiled at them while they were holding her.  Okay, first.  Babies don't smile when they're only a few days old.  They just don't.  If you try to tell me otherwise, I will mentally roll my eyes at you while saying, "Oh, how sweet!"  And second.  If my baby smiled, which, by the way, she didn't, then why didn't she smile at me?  Her mommy.  The one who suffered through thirty hours of increasingly painful, okay-just-go-ahead-and-kill-me-NOW labor to bring her into this world (not to mention all the little aches and pains during the months before labor) - didn't I deserve that first smile?

Although, really, it was a non-issue.  Because the smiles didn't happen.  I mean, less than a week old.  Come on.  Pull the other one, it's got bells on.

When she was five days old, we had to go back to the hospital so she could have some follow-up bloodwork done (usually done before you leave the hospital, but we left early, so we had to go back).  There was this absolutely awful soap opera-style drama on the television in the waiting room - think "Dr. Drake Ramoray" on the pseudo-Days Of Our Lives from Friends - and we spent the first five minutes in the room transfixed, amazed that something so awful could be on television, and wondering which actor's living room they were using for the set.

There's five minutes of my life I'll never get back.

I finally got bored with the inanity, and noticed my bee-bee girl was looking up at me.  I smiled at her, and started to sing, Twinkle twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are...

And then it happened.  My five-day-old baby smiled at me.  Looking right at me.  While I sang.  No sleeping, no gas.  Fully alert and smiling.

I punched Craig in the shoulder to dislodge his brain from the mire that was on the TV, then sang again. The wheels on the bus go round and round...  She smiled again.  It was true!  It really happened!

"Look, look!  She just smiled at me!" I told the lady sitting across from us. 

She looked, and said, "Oh, what a beautiful baby!  How old is she?"

"Five days - she was just born on Monday.  And she just smiled at me!"  I replied (and repeated), excited.

"Aww, she did?  How sweet!"  she cooed, while (I am certain) thinking, I bet it was gas.

A lab tech called us back.  "She's so pretty, and so alert!" she observed while leading us to the Baby Torture Chamber, otherwise known as the lab room where they do heel pricks.

"Yes, and she just smiled at me!"

"She's adorable." And I bet she has gas. "Put her down right here."

"Look, look.  I'll get her to smile.  'The wheels on the bus go round and round...'"  (No smile, of course.  OF COURSE.)

"Okay.  Oh, she's very sweet.  But, here - let me just --" And then the time for smiling was over.

But I know she did, because she kept doing it.  It wasn't an isolated event...she smiled at least once a day in response to a song, or a smile, or a "Bee-bee Bee-bee Boo!"  But I didn't have the chance to document it until she was three weeks old:


Yup.  There it is.  And if you tell me that's gas, then I'll pull your leg.

One thing that we all know as parents:  sooner or later, our child is going to tell on us.  They're going to get to that "repeat everything they hear at the worst possible time" age when we're not paying attention, and before we know it, they're saying the "s-word" in front of our mother-in-law whose swearing vocabulary includes things like "oh, foot," and then protesting, "But Mommy says it all the time!" when they're told it's not a nice thing to say.

(I did that to my mom when I was little.  And I can still see my grandmother standing at her kitching sink, saying, "Oh, foot!")

(I guess, technically, I just did it again.  Sorry, Mom.)

But do you expect, as grandparents, for your grandchild to tell on you?  I'm not sure, because I'm not a grandparent (and hopefully won't be for a loooooooooong time), but I didn't.

However, the other morning, after Craig gave the kids breakfast, the Imp started throwing one of his tantrums when his pumpkin muffin ran out.  Now, if he'd just asked for another one, I think he'd have gotten it, but instead, he started screaming as soon as the last bite was gone.  Daddy, of course, then refused him another muffin, which escalated the tantrum.  Then things got really bad.  The Birdie started making fun of his screaming, which made him a fount of tiny toddler fury. 

Daddy:  "Don't make fun of him.  That isn't nice."

Birdie:  "Grandma does."

Hee hee.  Glad to know it's not just us parents who are at risk.

Do as I say, not as I do - sometimes I feel like that is my motto.  I don't always set the best example for my kids, as much as I want to.

Particularly when it comes to keeping my house clean.

But you probably already knew that, right?

Right.

In our house, things that aren't used very often tend to stay where they land until we go on a cleaning spree...or until we decide it's some sort of safety hazard and move it.  Case in point:  when my husband got a replacement mirror for my car, the box in which it came sat on the third step coming up into our living room for a long time.  Like, weeks.  At least.

Another example:  a marker fell down the steps.  It sat there for a while.  I'm not sure how long, because after a while, you just don't tend to notice the clutter, at least not until it starts jumping out from behind corners and yelling BOO!

The other day, Craig was bringing the Imp into the house.  I was standing at the top of the steps watching them come in.  The Imp spotted the little marker and picked it up.  "Oh - what a good boy!" I called down to him.  "Thank you for bringing that up!"

The Imp, of course, completely ignored me.  He looked at the marker, then looked around.  Then he spotted the box.  He looked back and forth - marker, box.  And then - plop.  Marker in the box.  He beamed at me, then climbed on up the steps.

Maybe he's seen us shoving things into the closet one too many times.

It's time for Five Question Friday with Mama M. at My Little Life!  Fun questions this week!  Not that they ever aren't, but I particularly enjoyed a few of these.  Hope everyone had a great week!

1. Did you have a favorite blanket or toy as a kid? If so, do you still have it?

I still sleep with a Shamu stuffed animal that I've had for longer than I can remember.  Shamu wasn't always my favorite (although he was always among my favorites), but he's stuck with me for the longest.  My favorite was a tiny yellow stuffed...puppy, I think, but I was convinced and adamant that it was a kitten...that I called "Meringue," for whatever reason.  Meringue actually belonged to my mom, though, and eventually passed back into her stuffed animal collection.  Meringue now resides happily on the stuffed animal shelf in my parents' computer room.

2. Do you dream in color?

Honestly, I don't know.  My dreams are so hard for me to remember that even if I could remember what they were about, I couldn't tell you whether or not they were in color.

3. How tall are you? Do you wish you were shorter or taller?

I'm between 5'5" and 5'6".  I think it's a good height, and only wish I were taller when I'm sitting in a car and the seat belt is slicing across my neck (why don't they make those for people of average height?) or when someone is calculating my BMI.

4. If you could have anyone's (celeb or other) voice as the guide on your GPS, who would it be?

Hmm.  There are several I'd choose, but each would probably eventually get annoying, so I'd need to be able to rotate through.  The first one that comes to mind is Sean Connery.

5. Do you return your shopping cart to the corral or leave it wherever in the parking lot?

Oh my gosh.  This is SUCH a pet peeve of mine.  I always take it back to the corral...seriously, how hard is it???  Although I'll admit that I'm a little more understanding of the fact that it is harder for some people, like those with multiple small children, than it is for most people.  So if you have a few little toddlers hanging onto you and there are no spaces near a shopping cart corral, and you have to leave it in the space - okay, I can sympathize.  But if you don't have little kids and you just don't feel like making the walk to take it back - seriously?  That is really inconsiderate...not only of the people whose cars are going to get scratched by them, or the people who can't park in that space because the cart rolled a few feet and now it's blocked, but also the poor employees who are going to have to trudge all over the parking lot, rounding up stray carts.  Come on.  Have some consideration of others, please?