Recently in Sam stories Category

Sam recently reached the 30-night mark for sleeping in her own bed.

It was rough going some nights, especially when she was sitting on her bed, her body all tense, sobbing that she just wanted someone to snuggle her and love her.

I held my ground. Several nights, my husband stepped in and took over settling her down. I'm not sure how he did it -- although I know it involved some taking of deep breaths -- but there she'd be in the morning, her hair mussed and her face a little blotchy but in her own bed nonetheless.

This means Sam earned the grand prize she'd been working toward: A giant wooden dollhouse from Target.

A few weeks ago, my husband started working 12-hour overnight shifts -- 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. -- seven days a week at TMI. The job lasts only until Dec. 26, thank goodness, but we pretty much aren't going to see him until then.

This means I've had to drastically rearrange my work schedule, which is usually 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. Monday-Thursday and 3 p.m. to 1 a.m. Sundays.

First, ain't nobody gonna babysit my kids until 2 a.m. Monday morning.

Second, ain't no way I'm gonna try to leave my kids with the sitter -- even if I could -- until 7:45 or 8 p.m. during the week.

So this means our lives and routines have been drastically altered.

And this, my friends, is something Samantha does not like.

We stood in line for more than an hour, with Noah alternately hollering in my arms and running away as fast as his little legs could carry him.

Sam wandered, playing with the belt from my jean jacket and trying to make friends with the unsociable kids in front of and behind us.

It was hot, it was cramped and it was hugely unfair that other people came and went within 10 minutes because their last names didn't start with any letter between F and L.

But in the end, Sam was vaccinated against swine flu.

Well, halfway vaccinated. She has to get a second shot in a month. At the same place. Probably with the same divisions of last names, meaning I'll be in line for a long time again because I chose to marry a Gulli.

I've gotta say, though, once we were inside, it all went smoothly. And all the folks who were involved were wonderfully patient and calm -- an amazing feat considering they were all volunteers.

Anyway, we're part of the way to safety. I'm celebrating it as a small victory.

I'll admit that, even in one of my recent posts, I've been a little snarky about swine flu.

I mean, it's a flu. People get the flu all the time. My household even had a collective bout of flu last month.

But the news today that a Littlestown kindergartner died because of complications from swine flu scared the bejesus out of me.

Sam's got a little cold, with a sore throat and a slightly stuffy nose and an occasional headache.

On Monday, she tried to pull the "Mo-om, I don't feel good. I don't think I can go to school" act. I didn't buy it, especially when I said, "How about if we give you some medicine before you go so your throat doesn't hurt today?" and she said, "Nah, I don't feel bad enough to take medicine."

But, we agreed, I'd send the Triaminic along to school so that if she felt worse, she could go to the nurse's office and take a dose.

Who knew an ordeal would follow?

I recently had a disagreement with a psychologist about whether Sam, at age 6, should still be crawling into my bed every night.

I tried using the biggest, most-professional-sounding words I could:

I'm a proponent of co-sleeping, I said. I find the belief that children need to learn to sleep alone in a bed in a room separate from their parents to be an unrealistic American idea that is not practiced elsewhere in the world. As my child grows, she will naturally require more independence, and she will make the decision when the time is right about sleeping solo.

He replied, in a nutshell, that I'm full of crap.

On Monday, amid nerves and fake coughs and gleeful romping with friends, Sam started first grade.

Here's a pic of her before she ran off to the bus stop:

And oh, what a fun ride it's been so far.

Sam was swimming in our blow-up pool in the yard this weekend when she swam toward me.

"Mom," she said, "what happens if four-leaf burglars get wet?"

"Four-leaf whats?" I said.

"Four-leaf burglars," she replied. "Like this." And she held out a tiny leaf that looked a bit like a clover.

"Oh, you mean four-leaf clovers," I said.

"Yeah, sure," she said. "So what happens to 'em? Does it take the good luck out of them?"

"No, I don't think so. I think they just get wet," I said between laughs.

There was screaming in my house two nights ago.

Wails, cries, pleas to stop it, pleas not to do it again, pleas to "hold me, Mommy, pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease just hold me" and enough tears to sink some bathtub toys.

And it was all over a splinter. About a quarter of an inch long.

The other day, one of my friends put up a status update on Facebook asking us what crazy things we've said since we became parents -- things you totally would have no reason to say unless you had a kid.

I contributed the following:

"DON'T PUT YOGURT ON THE DOG!"
"Samantha, you do not have a penis."
and
"You can't lay on the cat's head because he can't breathe when you do that."

I've got a new one to add.