Four Is Not Fun At Four A.M.

NOTE:  Edited for the hog/hug mistake.  I'm sure there are more typos, but please, overlook them.  I'm certainly not a winner at writing.  I just love it.

Most of the time, I'm the parent with the most patience.  Having patience also makes me the parent most likely to give in.  We try to raise him with a firm hand, and I feel like we're doing a pretty good job. 

Sometimes.

No one told me that child rearing a four year old would prove more challenging than a fussy newborn, or a curious toddler, or an inquisitive three year old.  The minute Murray turned four is the minute he turned naughty.  Exasperatingly naughty.  Whiny, demanding, bossy, demanding, whiny...I think you get the picture.  Oh., and this 'silly' phase is for the birds.  C'mon Mur, you're cute enough the way it is, no need to put on your goofy hat. 

I've spent a lot of time on the phone with G.K. for parenting advice.

Sometimes, I find it easier to give in to just "one more snack" instead of listening to wails of "but, I'm SO hungry, Mom!"  Then there are the crocodile tears that he seems to be able to turn on at the drop of a hat.  The kid could win an Oscar.  I think he's the next Dakota Fanning. Hmmm....maybe I should look into that?

This morning, at 4:00 a.m., I woke to said child yelling from his room.  "Mom, Dad!  I'm awake!  Can I sleep in your room?"  Craig replies that yes, he may, but on his crib mattress on the floor and not in our bed. 

Murray skips across the hall (who skips at 4:00 a.m.?) blanket in hand and lies down.  Thirty seconds later:  "Mom, I'm cowwed (cold)!"  We groggily explained that if he wants to sleep in our room, he would have to bring in his pillows and more bedding by himself.  BIG sigh from Murray.  He stomps - so much for the skipping - to his room after a litany of complaints and returns with a flimsy blanket.

"Mom, I need my wittwah (little) bear and a hithow (pillow)."  Again, he needs to get those himself, I explain.  "WAAAA!!!  BUT I WANT YOU TO GET IT!"

This is where I give in.  FINE.  Now I'm acting like the four year old; stomping into his room to retrieve the darn bear and a pillow.  I finally get back into bed and I hear a whine, "Mom, you forgot my Pooh, and my dowphin, and my car, and my bobber, and moose."

You've GOT to be kidding me, I'm thinking.  I haul myself out of my nice warm bed, and off I go again. I grabbed pretty much everything in his entire room and dumped it on the floor next to him.  I snuggle him back in, then myself, and think, finally, some sleep.

"Mom, he whispers.  Can I have a drink of wadder?" So, I grab my water mug, hand it to him, he drinks, and I hiss, "I don't want to hear another word from you until morning."  Craig rolls over, looks at me and says, "Marie, that was kind of mean."

So, I burst into tears, apologize to Murray profusely, give him a big hug, and try to explain that Mama is just really tired and we all need some sleep. 

I felt terrible.  And guilty.  And terrible.  Soon, all three males in the house are snoring, while I was wide awake. I sighed, grabbed my book and settled on the couch for a good read.

At seven, when the house began to stir, Murray buried his head under the covers, asked me to turn the light off, and demanded the he sleep longer.  Go figure.

It's time for Mama to take back control.