When I heard the thump, I knew I was in trouble.
I had no idea how much trouble until I woke up this morning with arms like cooked spaghetti. My back ached, and I’d nodded off …

I had the bedtime problem solved: Energy expended at school and earlier nightfall plus an evil Mommy plot to wear their little butts out at the park every evening had created the most peaceful bedtimes …

My memories of life as a night owl date back to early grade school, when I’d lie in bed and gaze at fireworks from the county fair and wonder why I couldn’t be outside for …

Add another item to your running list of “reasons I fear my child will grow up to be a serial killer.”
A new study from Finland indicates that young children who snore have more problems with …

I am officially sick of coffee.
I bought a pound of my favorite this week – Peet’s Major Dickason’s Blend, the formula so stout mere mortals spew it – and it hasn’t fazed me. I had …

I have a back-up plan should the job market worsen: selling used furniture. I already have an impressive inventory of unnecessary beds.
And should things really get bad  – say, Bank of America flounders after buying …

I panicked and nearly froze Sunday night.
Let’s see … how exactly do I do this?
I think we need a lunch box, on the off chance Big Guy decides to eat at some point Monday. His …

The nightly knock-downs had ended. The sleep-time smack downs were over.
And now we’re back to bedtime bedlam, due to a combination of wimpiness and stupidity on my part.
Don’t you love it when you make your …

Sign me up for a session with a shrink.

I knew when I started it that letting the guys sleep with me was bad. In my defense, I didn’t really know I was starting it.

It began last summer, as a Friday “”stay up all night”" special with Big Guy to try to make up some of the together time he lost to That Baby Who Ruined His Life. We’d make popcorn, lie in the grass and watch the stars until I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Then I’d con him into my room, “”just to watch some movies

Before Simba could sing “”I Just Can’t Wait To Be King,”" he’d be out. That’s parenting sin No. 2, if you’re keeping score: Letting children fall asleep with

I envy Little Guy. He can konk out anywhere, anytime. Usually, he’ll wake up cheery. At 6 a.m. On a Saturday. He’s been that way since he was a babe.

Not so Big Guy. He’ll hoot, holler, protest and refuse to close his eyes for at least an hour every night. He’s also been that way since he was a babe. I used to turn up the monitor to eavesdrop as he babbled himself to sleep.

As much as Big Guy and I joust each night, I can’t blame him. He’s not trying to be difficult — most of the time. He’s just being Big Guy.

And he gets it from me.

• Grade school, up until dawn reading “”Gone With The Wind”" during summer vacation at

“I just googled “”strait jacket”" and children and was disappointed. I’d hoped to find a retailer on amazon.com. Instead, I came up with stories about an overly medicated society.

Too bad. I could use a set right about now, sizes smaller and smaller. Maybe in a Thomas pattern for Little Guy and Batman for his brother.

Aw, forget it. Child Protective Services probably would frown on use of restraints to keep your kids in bed. (If you’re reading, CPS, I’m not serious. It’s humor — get it?)

It wouldn’t work anyway. Big Guy, at least, is as creative as he is determined. And then he’d help his brother get out just to show me.

The problem of late has been his brother, and it’s like deja vu all over again. Actually, it’s not deja vu

God love the Centers for Disease Control.

Just when I had made peace – again – with my night owl habits, along comes a new study linking less than six hours’ sleep a night to health problems such as obesity.

Six hours? Only in my wildest dreams – and I rarely hit REM sleep long enough to have even mild dreams these days.

I get up at 5. OK, I’m lying — I pound the snooze alarm until 5:30. Tonight, the guys didn’t give it up until after 9. Which means that only if I went to bed as soon as they fell asleep would I come close to the eight to nine hours the government says is optimal.

And that’s assuming I could conk out as soon

A new neighbor, whose house is behind ours, was shocked during her evening walk recently to meet us and see the guys.

“There are only two? Really? It sounded like there are at least four.”

Some days it feels like it. Like today. My injury toll:

Mild concussion from a Little Guy head butt. Accidental, I think, resulting from a delusion on his part. “Power Rangers, Jungle Fury. Spirit of the Cheetah.” How he could enunciate that perfectly is beyond me – usually, F’s come out sounding like P’s and R’s like W’s.
Dislocated jaw from basketball with Big Guy, who figured out that if he couldn’t get around me he should instead shoot over. Except he doesn’t like the small basketball that came with their kiddy hoop, so he plays with a soccer ball. It hit me in the face, as visions of Rudy Tomjanovich danced in my head.
Sprained neck after Big Guy jumped off the back of the love seat and (almost) over me as I took too long getting Little Guy’s shoes on.
At least I got something out of it when they decided my back would make a grand drum. Those tiny fists worked all the tightness out of a chronically sore shoulder that no doubt has something to do with carrying a 30-pound purse.

After the neighbor left, I couldn’t decide if her comment was reassuring (good! it’s not just me who thinks they’re rowdy and loud) or embarrassing (if I were a better parent, they wouldn’t be such hellions.)

I should have taken a picture today of the two tiny heads smooshed together across adjoining sleeping bags in the living room – why they insist on two sleeping bags and then wind up entangled like conjoined twins is beyond me.

It might well be the last time it happens. Big Guy, it seems, is outgrowing naps.

I hate that, and it has absolutely nothing to do with a longing for my long-lost baby. It has everything to do with longing for my long-lost sleep.

It happened two days in a row last week at school. “He didn’t take a nap today, so good luck to you,” a teacher said as we left Friday.

I was as shocked as anyone when I didn’t need good luck. Big Guy was

Almost from the beginning, the guys and I have followed the same nightly ritual: stories, songs, cuddles and lights out.

Except lately, we’ve added a step: Big Guy’s long trudge down the hall to his own room.

The great bed-sharing experiment – if you can call something an “experiment” that’s gone on for 10 months – started last spring when Big Guy decided Little Guy’s new bed was far superior to his own.

A month later, I conceded that they were roommates and moved Big Guy’s dresser down the hall. I had an ulterior motive — I’d love to reclaim one of the bedrooms for my computer, which I’m tired of tripping over in my own room.

A month after that, we went through our first bout of Death

One hour, 11 minutes: A personal record tonight for Little Guy.

Not a household record, however. Big Guy once fought sleep for three hours. That was a special case, though – the eve of his third birthday, plus one of my sisters was visiting, so he had someone new to entertain.

We’re in week two of Operation Sleep Deprivation, with Little Guy showing far more stamina than I’d previously given him credit for. It’s just a phase, I keep reminding myself. It can’t last much longer. Can it?

I thought last night was rock bottom, when he bounced out of bed three times to lie in front of his door and cry. To make it worse, I was trying to cook tonight’s dinner at the time. Every tried

When we left our heroes, Little Guy’s big-boy bed had just arrived.  He hated it.  Big Guy, on the other hand, loved it. They’ve been sleeping together since. Most nights, that is – except for three, including last night. 

When it comes to discipline, I’m a steel-coated marshmallow. So the first week of the bed-share experiment, I let a nightly gabfest go because I wanted this to work. There are so many advantages to being roommates – learning to share, more brotherly closeness.

 All right, I’m lying. I wanted this to work because I lost my computer room when Little Guy moved in, and I want it back.

  Honestly, it isn’t Big Guy’s fault he can’t shut up. He’s a blabbermouth by nature. He’ll yak

Harsh reality has pre-empted tonight’s sentimental ode to the end of babyhood. The sappy remembrance will air at a later date, reality permitting.

Little Guy hates his big-boy bed. He glares at it, as if it’s responsible for famine in Africa and $3.40-a-gallon gas

He’s not wild about me, either. I robbed him of the blessed comfort of his crib, cold-heartedly tossing it in the garage and replacing it with this thing . “How could you ruin my sweet little life?” his eyes ask.

This one was supposed to be easy. But every time I think I have this gig figured out, the Motherhood Muses are tittering around the corner, ready to smite my butt.

Except for scattered tummy and teeth pain, Little Guy never has had trouble sleeping. He recently dozed off over a bowl of Cheez-Its. He slept in two different beds on vacation, adjusting to each in about five minutes.

He took to his big-boy bed immediately in the showroom, climbing in and lying down with a huge grin. This is going to be a snap, I thought.

It’s amazing the tricks your mind can play. Like this morning, when Big Guy bounced into my bed at 8:30, according to the cable box. Wow. Ten hours’ sleep. No wonder I’m so refreshed!

Euphoria lasted as far as the kitchen, where it was 7:30. Then I remembered. The cable box adjusts itself for daylight savings time. Microwaves do not. Drat. I didn’t get extra sleep. Where are the coffee filters …

It’s amazing, too, that I could forget something I read a story about early onset daylight savings time.

Boon: I wouldn’t call myself a fanatical environmentalist, but I like to do my part. And if extra weeks of daylight-saving time would help, fine.

That was normal-person thinking. Soon Mommy thinking took over