"Mommy! Mommy! Could we watch Lightning McQueen? Mommy! Could we watch Lightning McQueen? Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!"

MJ says this to me from her breakfast perch this morning, where she is running her miniature red No. 95 Lightning McQueen car on the table between bites of syrupy waffle. You may know LQ as the "lead character" in Cars, a movie we have only just begun to watch. And watch. And watch. A movie that, I daresay, is rivalling Madagascar as my "new" (it's new to me) favorite animated film. It's a tale of friendship, small town vs. big town, the big picture vs. the big idea, winning and losing and how losing sometimes means winning ... plus it has all that great music, especially the Rascal Flatt's version of "Life is a Highway" and the sweetly sad "Our Town" by James Taylor -- which anyone who comes from a small town would love. And I do.

So, when I went to turn it on for MJ this morning, and the sound wasn't working, I was a little bit sad myself. Which, in and of itself, is sad. But I digress ... to the Bat Phone!

Ring!

Randy: "Hey."

Me: "Yello. 'Sup?"

Randy: "Not much. You know ... working. Earning money for your keep. Trying to get this project finished up so I can spend time with my parents while they visit this week. That sort of thing."

Me: "Sweet."

Randy: "What's going on there?"

Me: "Bit of an emergency. The sound won't come on the TV."

Randy: "Hmmm. Well, that's no good."

Me: "Yeah. That's what I thought. What did you do to it?"

Randy: "I didn't do anything to it."

Me: "Then why won't it come on?"

Randy: "I don't know. I didn't touch it."

Me: "Well how do I fix it?

Randy: "I don't know. It should work."

Me: "Well this is unacceptable. I can't go through a whole day without sound on my TV! Who will babysit your children? Do you know what I have to get done today?"

Randy: "I can't imagine."

Me: "Yeah, well. I'm frustrated."

Randy: "I can see that. Sounds like it's going to be a long day. OK, well, gotta go work now."

Me: "Yeah, OK. Fine."

It's times like this when I realize I've lost all control of reality.

The good news is that I did get the sound fixed. It turns out that our television, with all of its myriad systems and dozens of remotes for hundreds of functions, responds surprisingly well to cursing.

So I have a place where I go when I need to relax or cheer up or clear my mind, and it's a house on the water near Sanibel Island, where Randy and I went for our honeymoon. It had sleek Scandinavian furniture that we'll never own, a large boat that we'll never own, and most importantly ... it had two weeks of complete freedom that, well, let's face it, we'll never see again. So my answer to this week's burning question:

What part of your pre-mother life would you like to have back, even if just for one day?

... would be traveling and vacationing without the kiddie-poos. I love 'em, I really do, but I haven't slept a good, full night's sleep on a trip away from home (and that includes overnight stays at the grandparents' house) since I became a mother. And I really miss the true vacation, the carefree vacation, which -- as every parent knows -- you never truly get back, even if you leave the kids at home and go off to celebrate your anniversary somewhere that requires a plane ticket or is at least two gas fill-ups away from endless "Curious George" reruns. Everything you see, you still see through their eyes.

"Hey! We're at the Eiffel Tower! Oh, look -- there's a bunny. Oh, MJ just loves bunnies. She would have gone crazy if she were here. Dude, let's call her and tell her about the French bunny."

That's how it would go down if Randy and I were to go to Paris now, people. I guarantee it. Here's what my posse has to say about what they're missin' most:

Barb: I miss my lazy Sundays. My husband would typically be working on Sundays, so I had the house to myself. The day would start off with a pot full of coffee and the newspaper. After that I would either scan the Internet or read a book. I filled the rest of the day with phone calls to friends and catching up on my favorite TV shows. Dinner consisted of delivery from either the Chinese or tex-mex restaurants down the street, and the day ended with a long, hot bubble bath. I now can only dream wistfully about those Sundays while attending another birthday party, soccer game, play date or watching The Little Mermaid for the millionth time.

Lisa: I'm a pretty slack mom or I had a pretty boring life before, because the majority of my post-mom life is indistinguishable from the pre-mom part with two obvious exceptions. I guess the thing I miss most is the relative ease with which common tasks were accomplished. Running to the store to pick up one item? 10-15 minutes, tops pre-mom. Now, if there isn't an entire hour to devote to the endeavor, we generally go without whatever it is. Also, I used to read books without forgetting what they were about between the time I started and finished, and that time period was usually measured in hours not weeks or months (holla!). {ed note: shout it, sister.}

Janice: I did not even have to think about this one! Sunday mornings. Ahhhhh, just to snuggle back under the covers when the sunlight sneaks through my curtains (for the record - just because the sun is starting to come up DOES NOT mean that it is 'morning time'), snooze for hours and roll out of bed WHENEVER I feel like it and go downstairs to a steaming cup of coffee - no wait - I could even take the time to make a frothy, super indulgent cappuccino (on my fancy machine that hardly gets enough use, that I swore I would take the time to use every day!) and then snuggle up on the couch in my favorite blanket (that is not being used to comfort some random toy or encrusted with I-have-no-idea-what) and read, read, read every page of two Sunday papers and listen to CBC (we Canadians need our droning, boring, hilarious Canadian news and humour - yes we spell "humour" like this) on the radio (radio does not always mean dancing!) and being able to discuss an article and finish my train of thought to finish a sentence.

Maybe just one Sunday.

Maybe that would be too quiet and boring, and it would not have enough oatmeal on the floor... {ed note: You can never have enough oatmeal on the floor. And I LOVE Canadian spelling. As you know. It's your countrymen's use of the metric system -- and, OK, the rest of the world's use of it -- that I dislike. Hee.}

Laura: Sleep. Here's why:

11pm to 1:30am: Carmen {the newborn} is up doing some combo of crying\eating\pooping, and Dog1 keeps following us around wondering why we've 1) brought another kid into the house and 2) aren't sleeping. Dog2 takes up post in the hall and lies across it so that we have to step over her every time we need to get from one end to the other. When we pass by, she opens her eyes, sighs, and groans. The cat is typically stretched out on the bed that no one else is using.

2am - 2:30am: Lucas {the 2-year-old}, who felt the need to grow his last four molars right now, wakes up screaming. We drug him but it takes a good 30 mins to take effect. Dog1 gives up on us and retires to her bed.

3am: Carmen wakes up.

3:30: If we're lucky, Carmen falls asleep, passing the baton to the cat, who figures that since we are up anyway, we should just feed him.

6 a.m.: Carmen wakes Lucas and Bean up. By this point Dog2 has joined forces with the cat in demanding breakfast, and Dog1 has her head curled under her leg trying to ignore it all. (She likes her sleep.) Lucas demands breakfast or TV, and Marc and I barter over who had less sleep and is now responsible for getting Lucas to daycare (dressed, preferably).

{ed note: Oh, the bartering. Many a fake sum of money has been promised to a spouse in this household if he would just go check on MJ/change LL Cool Baby's diaper/go to the grocery store and buy more baby food/take out the trash. Love the barter.}

Brandi: I’d like to have re-visit two things: a day of primitive outdoor activity: backpack/hiking camping and biking. I MISS going hiking, backpacking, and mountain biking. Backpacking is great; everything you need is on your back. Now, I have a difficult time putting everything we need into an SUV if we bring the kids just an hour down the road. JoJo and I could do these activities by ourselves with minimal gear, but it’s a whole other undertaking accommodating all of the kid’s necessities or trying to get a sitter for them while we traipse or zoom across the woods.

And last but certainly not least…

I miss my sleep. I’ve been so sleep deprived like many moms who have 4 1/2 month old and 2 1/2 yr old or just kids. I use to think I needed 10 hours a night, I’m lucky now if I get 6 hours straight in one night or 6 hours total. A day of sleep would be friggin' awesome!!! I’ll take one please. {ed note: me too, me too!}

The husband and I, that is. Yes, these 13 habits are very annoying, but we've also decided that, because they've become standing jokes, we'd probably miss them if they went away.

Well, probably, anyway.

Starting with how I annoy him:

1. "Are you incapable of putting the cap back on the toothpaste?"
It's true: I'm a living cliche. Which is why we have his and hers toothpaste.

2. "Your car looks like a junkyard."
Well, that might be overstating the case just a bit. A teenager's cluttered room, maybe.

3. "If you kick all the covers off of you at night, how do you still manage to steal them all?"
One of science's great mysteries.

4. "You have a gum problem."
I do not have a gum problem.
"You are so fixated on the gum that you refuse to throw away the wrappers."
Well, that's a gum wrapper problem, now isn't it?


5. "You fold clothes, but leave them in the laundry basket ... downstairs."
Guilty.

6. "What's with the 'anymore syndrome?'"
It's true: I have a tendency to talk like a crotchety old sourpuss at times. For example: "You just can't get a good order of McDonald's french fries anymore," or, "They don't make any fun cartoons anymore."

6.5 "You never finish the milk in your cereal bowl."
It's true. I never finish the milk in my cereal bowl.
"Is it because you pour too much, or you don't like it after all the cereal is gone?"
A little of both, actually.



... and then there is how he annoys me:

7. You taught MJ to drink the leftover milk in her cereal bowl.
"So?"
So if she ever has dinner with the queen, I hope she skips the soup course.

8. You leave the baby monitor on when she's in the room with us, and turn it off when she's upstairs, out of hearing range. Defeats the purpose, no?
"The buzzing sound annoys me while I'm watching TV."

9. While most people would turn the radio up when the emergency alert signal comes on, you actually turn it all the way down, causing me to wonder if we might be driving unwittingly into a tornado.
"It's too loud. I can't hear the baby in the backseat."

10. Cabinets? Drawers? You could close those once in a while, right?
"I'm in a hurry."

11. Nothing is ever true -- even if I have researched it -- until you have researched it yourself.
"Yeah. So? What's your point?"

12. Every home improvement project that you've ever started is currently only 94 percent complete.
"I always like to have a little bit left to do."

13. You like to stand over my shoulder while I type.
"Uh, yeah. That's because I never know when you might be typing something about me. Like now, for instance."
You make an excellent point.
"Obviously."

I try my best to raise hilarious children, so I can exploit write about them here. We start each morning with exercises in timing, delivery, effective punch lines and silly voices. I make the Bunker Girls sit at the breakfast table, staring at their untouched cereal, until they do one thing that shows me they have what it takes to one day appear in a film with Mike Myers or Will Ferrell, or, at the very least, Adam Sandler. Slapstick, people! I want slapstick from my kids.

(Sigh) Sadly, some days are better than others. Some days, one of them has been up half the night sick, which is sad, but definitely not funny. Some days, the two of them just sit around and be all sisterly toward one another. That's cute, but it's not funny. Some days, I think, maybe I should write about the friend whose daughter refers to their Roomba as her little brother. Hee. Now that's some funny. Other days, I borrow the funny from my sister's kids -- and when that doesn't work, I borrow the funny from my sister's kids' classmates. You take the funny where you can get it, people. To wit:

A boy in my nephew's first-grade class told one of his classmates that she "sucked." The girl told the teacher. The teacher told the boy he had to write a note to the girl and tell her he was sorry. The boy did. This is what he wrote:

Dear Allison*,

I'm sorry that you suck.

I can't help but think that Allison must have felt like the Duke football team probably did when it read this story, in which it was declared legally sucky by a circuit court judge in Kentucky.

*of course I changed the name.

Crisis mode. Middle-of-the-night stomach bug. As I changed MJ's bedsheets and blanket for the second time in the wee hours of this morning, a calm sort of purposefullness set over me. She's so sad and so bewildered by what's happening to her when she's sick, and unlike other trying moments of our days -- when she wants a third cup of juice and I want five minutes to finish the laundry -- there is no other thought but comfort, no tug-o-war of competing needs. I know what to do. I know what needs to be done. Messes need cleaning, fluids given, hugs administered, cuddles employed. There is a rhythm to the comforting, and I settle into it. I need, in fact, to settle into it; I don't want anyone else to do it for me.

On any other day I might be baffled by how to deal with a particular tantrum, how to potty train a child who refuses to be potty trained, how and what to feed a child who won't eat what I prepare. How to discipline a toddler who won't listen. How to turn my back for five seconds while the markers are in use. I might be troubled by how to get the grocery cart back in the parking lot stalls without leaving the kids in the car by themselves for too long. About getting to the grocery store with two kids in the first place. About whether they play well with others. About whether they'll get into preschool, and whether it's the right preschool. About an excess of toys. About a dearth of outside play.

I don't think "naturally resourceful" are the first words to roll off anyone's tongue when describing me.

But this? Making a boo boo better? Is the oldest and easiest thing in the world. This is when I know I'm a good mother, when I actually know what I'm doing ... even if that five minutes of laundry just turned into three more loads and five more hours. (And trust me, it has...)

Saturday started out nice for everyone. And then we lost the flashlight. The flashlight, Mommy, where is the light? I need it. I need it. Neeeeed it!

"Oh no, it's gone!" MJ squealed. "Daddy, it's gone! My light! What are we going to do? Noooooo!"

The light in question was this:



... which came in our Frosted Mini-Wheats (aka "Daddy's cereal"). Apparently, Randy and MJ had decided over the past week that these so-called light-up "Adventure Spoons" (as if eating frosted wheat biscuits isn't "living on the edge" enough) were the new Best Things Ever. She spent a lot of time shining it on the walls and doing what she called "puppet shows," even though there were no puppets or even shadows to speak of, just light.

And I say "Things," plural, because apparently they had also been collecting them for some time. (We go through a lot of Mini Wheats.) Indeed, apparently they had been collecting them for so long that they had piled up on a counter, unopened, near the trash can, where one day a few weeks ago a certain mommy unwittingly swept them all into said trash can, thinking they were junk. Crappy little Happy Meal toys that had accumulated and were now begging to be put out of their misery.

But oh no, friends. These were very special flashlight spoons. So when the green one that hadn't been tossed went missing ...

Randy: "It's OK, we have a bunch more. Where did we put those? Beth? Have you seen the other flashlights?"
Beth, dread and realization filling her veins: "Uh, I didn't know we had others..."
Randy: "Yeah, there were a whole bunch of them."
Beth: "Oh. Um. I might have thrown them out."
Randy: "WHAT? Why would you DO that? We had all of them, too, all the different colors."
Beth, in a tiny voice: "Whoops."
MJ: "Threw them away? Gone? Oh noooooo! What are we going to do?"

So of course what we did was to climb into Mommy's Big Guilt Wagon to go to the grocery store in search of another box of Mini Wheats (even though we had just opened a brand new one) so we could get another flashlight celebrating a movie series that MJ has never seen -- but not before we spent $65 filling up the gas tank to buy the $4 package of cereal. Motherhood: Two parts love, one part consumerism.

And let me tell you, Kellogg's is rockin' the Indiana Jones marketing. Most of their cereal is at least 50 percent more adventuresome this summer, what with the offers for free DVDs or "Adventure Canteens" or "Search Lights" on every box ... and, of course, the "limited edition" box of Indiana Jones brand cereal, complete with marshmallow skulls. (Mmmm ... marshmallow skulls.)



These sorts of things always kill me: If it's "limited edition," is it OK to eat it, or should I be selling it on eBay? Displaying it on a wall? It's like those souvenir Coke cans they sell after a team wins a championship. I'm pretty sure I still have some unopened from when Penn State won the national title in 1986. Yummy.

ANYWAY ... guess what the grocery store didn't have any more of? Yep. Mini Wheats with Adventure Spoons inside. In fact, nothing had Adventure Spoons inside it. Nothing except Frosted Flakes. Which no one in my house ever eats. Until now ...

Of course, we also picked up: a balloon; a cookie; two samples of cheese; one sample each of honey ham, olive bread and grapes; and a squeaky plastic frog that, according to MJ, "needed a big hug."

I used to love C+C Music Factory. Remember that song? "Things That Make You Go Hmmm...?" Good times, good times, people. Anyway ... I'm dying to share my theory -- prepare to be blown away by my brilliant-ness -- that "Lost" was actually inspired by Madagascar. Remember Madagascar? Animals escape from the Central Park Zoo and wind up on a desert island, away from their pampered life of privilege? You have your lion character, who enjoyed a life of stature at the zoo and just wants to get home ...




You have your zebra character, who liked the freedom he had on the island and didn't want to go back to the zoo ...




You have the lemurs (the Others), led by head lemur King Julien ...



... who uses the lost zoo animals to keep away the predatory foosa (Charles Widmore and the people on the boat). I'm not sure where the penguins fit in, but I do know that I love them, and this movie. MJ could watch this puppy all day and I'd never tire of it. Also? When they play the song, "Move it, move it" ("He like to move it move it; she like to move it move it; we like to ... MOVE IT"), we both like to get up off the couch and, well ... you know, move it. My favorite animated film.

(Fun fact: Madagascar 2 is coming in November.)

Which leads us (finally) to this week's question:

Which animated movie could you watch over and over again, and which would you like to toss in a trash heap?

Janice: Without a doubt - I could watch Jungle Book over and over. I am not sure if it is the movie or watching my little girlie bop wide-eyed and gleeful to Baloo and Mowgli when they sing "The Bear Necessities," while she mimics the dance moves and bellows "Look for the Bear Nesesames, do do bear nesesames. Forget about your worries and your sime." It is too much!

There are too many movies I would like to throw in the trash heap. Maybe even Jungle Book 2. We recently went to a princess birthday party and, as Maya can count on one finger the number of times that she has dressed up as a princess, she was in her glory. She has not seen any princess movies or read any books, but when she came home from the birthday party, she was sad. "Mommy, I really, really want to be a princess so much when I grow up." And I asked her why she was sad: "Because I am not pretty like Cinderella and no prince will love me and marry me. Only pretty girls will get married." My heart broke.

Becky: Ok, so I've tested the answer to this question on long drives between D.C. and N.Y., and Japanese animation wins -- My Neighbor Totoro. Yeah, the beginning involves a lot of screaming girls, but the youngest, Mei, is just so cute, and the cat-bus cracks me up. Plus, who wouldn't want to grow up with a giant, furry Totoro? {ed. note: No friend of mine!}

As for the flick to toss to the junk pile, this is tricky, there are so many ... Where do these movies come from? How do they get in our home? When will: A. My daughter forget they exist; or B. I become good at lying and say I have no idea what she's talking about, all the while I'm fully aware it's in the dumpster or donated to Goodwill?

The junk winner in our home is an Italian gem purchased by my dad from a WalMart $1 bin about a dog named "Scruffy".

Lisa: We’re currently stuck in a binary loop of Chicken Little and Monsters, Inc. (or in tiny girl speak ‘Zonza Ink’). I like both of them fine, but my all-time animated favorite is Wallace and Gromit in The Wrong Trousers. We’ve solved the problem of the trash heap worthy films by pre-screening everything and not allowing the annoying to even enter the home because if it’s here, it’s getting watched no matter how hard I try to redirect to something less objectionable (I’m looking at you Franklin, Little Bear and each and every Doodlebop). Since I’m a slave to Pixar, you know I’ll be first in line at Wall-E next week. Wanna split some popcorn? {Absolutely. I love popcorn! See you there.}

As I sit here, asking the toddler not to tackle her infant sister, I recall a time not so long ago when I escaped the world of stay-at-home mom to become the stay-at-home-beach-rental-mom. That time? Last week. It's always nice to take my nagging-and-scolding show on the road, for a change of scenery, and the North Carolina coast is a lovely place to administer a time-out while rocking on a porch in front of the sand dunes and sipping iced tea.

I also did these 13 things (and took a break from grammar, as you can plainly see in the title of this post ... sorry Di), which I thought I would share with all of you lovely people.

1. I actually finished reading a book. A whole book. This is a big accomplishment for a person who had been reading the same book (not Loving Frank, another one) since December. I couldn't be more proud of myself. Thank you, thank you. Please be seated.

2. While traipsing about the streets of Wilmington during a day trip, I resisted the temptation to mention "Dawson's Creek," even though Pacey was in my thoughts.

3. While driving through Wilmington and past Whitey's Restaurant, I resisted the temptation to mention, for the 157th time since I met the husband, that "Michael Jordan once worked there." (Voice of Husband: Um, no, you didn't. Voice of Me: I mentioned it? VOH: Yeah. It was mentioned. VOM: Oh. OK. But, I mean, seriously: Greatest basketball player of all time! VOH: Yeah. Whatever. I'm from Canada.)

4. OK, but I did resist the temptation to smack the 7-year-old kid at the pool who told me, "Your granddaughter is in my way." Stupid skirted bathing suit. Thirty-five, people! I am only 35. (VOH: You do not look a day over 28. VOM: You are so smart.)

5. I went a whole week without Internet. Almost. There was one moment of weakness at the McDonald's WiFi midweek. It wasn't easy, people, but I did it. Almost.

6. I didn't watch a single kid's television show. In fact, I barely watched any grown-up television. Did I mention that I finished a whole book? Proud.

7. I gained a pound. (OK, maybe not something to be proud of, exactly, but I ate really, really well ... and so my stomach was proud.)

8. I remembered to stop the mail AND the newspaper before I left. Again, thank you for the applause. You're right: It IS quite an accomplishment.

9. Got my toddler to calm down and go to sleep in her travel air bed ... and it only took four days of pleading and driving around after dark to do it! Parent-of-the-year.

10. I took this picture of the husband, which kills me:



11. No sunburn! Thanks, SPF 50.

12. I walked to the pool in a bathing suit in full view, without any cover up or extra-large T-shirt to shield me from the snickering and stares of people who haven't given birth to two children. Although, clearly, given Smarty McSmartypants from #4 above, perhaps that was a mistake.

13. I remembered to listen to the waves crashing on the beach as I fell asleep at night, as I rocked Little L to sleep, as I sat on the porch. Life's little pleasures, people, life's little pleasures.

"Beth, did your daughter have jammies and a diaper on when you put her in bed?" Randy is calling to me downstairs, from upstairs, where he is standing in puddles of pee in MJ's room.

"Yes," I blurt out, with dread.

"Well," he says, "she doesn't now."

And he wonders why I want to watch "The Secret Life of the American Teenager," a show we had seen preview for a couple nights ago. I need a release from toddlerhood. Something more grown-up. Something more like teenagerhood. (Adulthood would just be going too far.)

"Is it so wrong that I want to watch a show with Molly Ringwald in it?" I had asked Randy, after having him tell me -- upon seeing my eyes grow big as saucers at the prospect of a new show -- that we were not adding it to the DVR.

"No more shows about teenagers!" he insisted, pulling the remote closer toward him, as if protecting the TV -- his baby -- from my insanity. "No more! I'm cutting you off. You have a problem."

OK, I don't have a problem. This is the same phrase I hear about my "alleged" chewing gum addiction ...



... and the fact that I am 75 percent combustible from 8 a.m. to 10 a.m. (actual husband quote: "Did you know that your coffee creamer is flammable?"):



The problem is with producers of shows like "Gossip Girl" and "Greek" (which I may or may not have been watching at the time the preview came on) who keep making immensely entertaining shows that star and revolve around teenagers and make me long for a return of the fabulously kvetching "Party of Five." I mean, I love "Grey's Anatomy," but I'll take the bratty, spoiled chicks on "Gossip Girl" over real-life brat Katherine Heigl any day of the week. Granted, I haven't seen "Secret Life" yet (it premieres July 1), but I'm more than willing to give it a spin.

And, well ... if you really want to blame someone for my love of teenager shows, blame MJ -- not for the previously mentioned freestyle bedtime peeing, but because I once had nothing else to do while holding her 3-month-old self and waiting for her to fall asleep, so during the spring and summer of 2005 I watched every single rerun of this stupid show, from pilot to finale, on TBS. And oh, how I grew to love that stupid show, and all of its stupidness.

Back to the other night:

"We're watching it," I told Randy, with great determination, standing up for oppressed housewives everywhere who secretly worship teenage television. Yep, this must be how late nineteenth century women in the western United States felt after they first won suffrage. (See Pearl? I'm trying to raise my blog reading level.) We've come a long way, baby.

"Do we have to?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. "We must. It's highly relative. One day we will have teenagers, and I think it's important we keep up with trends in the industry."

"Well," he allowed, "it's true. We'll have two of them, in fact, for something like seven years."

"Exactly," I said. "And ... I mean, dude: Molly Ringwald!"

Every two minutes or so, I would look in the back seat to see if MJ was asleep yet. Down the road from our beach house rental, over the Trooper Larry Walton Memorial Bridge, across the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway and back ... four nights in a row, we tried to drive our little toddler to sleep, the way we used to do when she was a newborn.

Why? Because she was out of control hyper. Doodlebops hyper. I kid you not, the first night of our vacation, the child break-danced on the hardwood floors at 11 p.m. while my sister read her If You Give a Moose a Muffin. I have cousins, nieces and nephews who will conk out on a couch at 8 p.m., even if a party is going on around them. Even at their own birthday parties. My kid? Will outlast the hardiest of partiers. Paris and Lindsay would not know what hit them.

And if you've ever traveled with both a 3-year-old and a 10-month-old and had to "sleep" in the same room with both of them, you know the drill. You know what's at stake. If the baby cries, the toddler is up. If the toddler protests bedtime, the baby is squawking. It is truly one of life's most cruel and vicious cycles.

So, the driving. Each night, a new excuse to go to the grocery store: "MJ, let's get in the car (at 9:30 p.m.); we need to buy some diapers." "Hey, let's go for a quick ride to buy you a new toothbrush." Etc.

The first night, it actually worked. We drove home, I got out of the car and went into the house first for some recon work -- asking all the adults (grandparents, aunts, etc.) to turn down the lights and mute the TV and be as still as mice, as though waiting for a surprise birthday party -- and then Randy brought her boneless body inside and deposited her onto her toddler air bed a mere five feet from her sister's crib ... and we both held our breath. Success.

The next night was a disaster. She was "drowsy" by the end of our drive, so we tried to put her in her bed and coax her to sleep. Seemed fine. And then, it wasn't. And then, everybody was awake. Toddler, baby, Mommy, Daddy, Grammy and Pop Pop across the hall. There was begging. There was pleading. There was rocking. And that was just what we had to do to get the grandparents back to sleep! (Ba dump bump.) MJ gave in at around midnight; Little L held out until 1:30 a.m. Everyone else: exhausted.

MJ was like a zombie the next day (and most days, actually), she was so tired. The drama reached new levels. In one hilarious episode, she stood on the porch trying to fasten Randy's life jacket around her and tripped on her own feet, tumbling ever so gently onto her back while wearing the thing, rendering her unable to move. While she lay there, kicking her legs and crying, we "adults" rocked in our white rocking chairs and giggled at the sight. "She's like a turtle," my dad guffawed, "stuck on its back." Her mother took a video. Finally, someone righted her, only to watch her do it again. It was sad. We were sorry we had laughed, we told ourselves, in between laughter. Because mostly it was just funny.

Except for the not sleeping part.

So, new plan. Still driving, but now with new bedding arrangements. Baby crib goes into grandparents room, toddler air bed stays in our room. More success, but still the kind that had her up until midnight. The next night, same plan. More disaster. This time, Little L, growing no fewer than six teeth at once this week, gets a bit growly and demands a room reassignment. Crib goes back into our room, toddler air bed moves to the grandparents' quarters. Eventual success.

The next night? Screw the driving. Nothing left to buy at Food Lion. So, a shockingly familiar tactic: Bathtime, story, cuddle, singing by mommy, and ... miraculously, sleep. Sweet, precious, un-embattled sleep. "I love you too, Mommy," she said before she rolled over and started snoring -- because that's what she always says when her world is right, when she's blissful, when she's safe, when she's not a turtle stuck on its back in a daze of insomnia.

Poor MJ. Her bad parents, in an effort to take a vacation from being parents, tried every gimmick in the book to avoid the usual seemingly drawn-out bedtime routine we have to do at home. And it only cost us $20 in gas and seven hours of sleep to figure it out. We are idiots.