There were 32 in the bed and the little one said...

When Nina was a baby, I did what most first time moms do. I read all about baby care, panicked, and was overly cautious whenever possible. So naturally I wasn't going to let my baby sleep in a death trap. Everyone knows that babies die if they so much as think about a snuggly blanket while in their cribs. I was very careful about removing the fluffy menace from areas in and around her crib. She didn't sleep with anything cuddly for the first eight months of her life.

This is what a baby with a loose blanket looks like.

Then Nina started going to sleep with her favorite stuffed animal, a little piece of fabric with a zebra head sewn on top named Moosie (I know, but Zebra-ie doesn't have the same ring to it). They purposely make these toys so small and flat that infants cannot die on them, but I was still pretty sure she was going to suffocate, so I dutifully sneaked into her room every night to take it away.

Finally, she turned that magical age: 1. The age when she would no longer be in danger of instantly dying from (this list is abbreviated): egg yolks, peanut butter, facing forward in a car seat, being in the vicinity of blankets, honey nut cheerios, and of course, suffocating on a teeny, tiny stuffed animal. So it was then that I stopped stealing her most favorite, favorite, favorite toy away while she slept. It was also then that I started leaving some toys next to the crib, and hanging over the crib rail, so when she woke in the wee hours of the morning mama could sneak in a few extra minutes of sleepy time while Nina busied herself pulling  toys through the rails or onto her head. And if she knocked herself unconscious for an hour or two in the process, all the better.

Maybe it was all those months of waking up in the crib all alone, no Moosie in sight, that led to her eventual downward spiral into addiction. Maybe it was the excessive number of toys I left around the crib in my selfish attempt to catch a few extra Zs. Or maybe it's just in her nature to be completely insane. We may never know. What we do know is she has a problem, and when a 3-year-old has a problem, everyone has a problem.

This morning, Nina woke up with 32 "friends" in her bed:

• Moosie the zebra
• Joshua Giraffe
• Owen the cabbage patch doll
• Upstairs Panda and Downstairs Panda (Two panda Pillow Pets)
• A backpack
• A Fisher-Price camera
• Louise, the Build-a-Bear cat
• Teddy Bear the tye-dyed Beanie Baby
• Ballerina Bear
• Strawberry Bear
• Winnie-the-Pooh
• Max from How the Grinch Stole Christmas
• Josie the snow leopard
• Sophie, the very squeaky giraffe
• Four books
• Hop Hop the rabbit
• Other Hop Hop, the rabbit wearing a tutu
• Hop Hop's ball (because even her stuffed animals have to sleep with their toys)
• Mouse
• Hoo Hoo, the owl
• Monkey (I just asked her what monkey's name is, and she said, "I'm going to call him mommy.")
• Rexy the T-Rex
• Pinwheel
• Big Bad Wolf puppet
• Thomas the Tank Engine Flashlight that says, "Bust my Boilers! It's dark in here!"
• Toy Story flashlight
• Big Doggy, a stuffed dog as big as she is (thanks, Aunt Elsie)
• Glow Baby, the glow worm

In case you were wondering, she doesn't sleep in a Target. She sleeps in a twin-sized bed. Which is a step up from the toddler bed she was sleeping in a few weeks ago. Back then -- "the good old days," I like to call them -- we were able to keep Nina at a measly eight to ten friends at night because that was all that could fit under her itty bitty blanket. But now she has an entire big girl bed to fill up with snuggly love. And fill it she must.

Now, I don't really care what she sleeps with (well, within reason), as long as she sleeps. But as you can imagine, with so many toys crowding up her bed, this is what I find at 2 a.m.:

And the little one said, roll over, roll over...

Her falling out of bed is the least of my worries, though. The real problem is she is obsessed with her friends being in some magical, OCD-specific order (most loved to least?). They must also be completely covered by her blankets throughout the entire night. Oh, and did I mention she wears glasses and so she can't see unless something is two inches from her face?

So this is what inevitably happens:

8:30 p.m.

Nina: Mom! I can't find Hop Hop!

8:35 p.m.

Nina: Mom! I can't find Joshua!

8:42 p.m.

Nina: Mom! The blankets aren't on Strawberry Bear!

9 p.m.

Me: Finally, she's alseep. Let me just press play on the DVR, stick my hand in this big bowl of greasy, buttery popcorn, and....

Nina: MOM! I really really need you! I can't find Big Doggy!

Seriously, you know that phrase about "the elephant in the room"? Nina wouldn't be able to find it in her bed unless it was in its magical, OCD-specific spot. And she would be so pissed that it didn't fit under her blanket.

So every morning, I take a few friends away and I hide them in the closet, or in a Tupperware in the crawl space, or in the trash can. Slowly, the pile dwindles to a manageable number. Sure, everything still has to be covered by blankets or it's nuclear meltdown time. Sure, she still can't find her most favorite tiny HelloKitty toy because without her glasses everything is a dimly lit smudge. But at least I can find the offender without a search team and detection dogs.

Still, every day, she finds some new toy to obsess over. That McDonald's Happy Meal piece of junk? "It's my favorite, favorite, favorite mom! Hey, and that reminds me, didn't we have 10 other McDonald's toys that I used to sleep with? Where are those mom?"

"Uh, I don't know sweetie. Just don't check the trash can."

Cleanliness is next to... ah, who am I kidding?

My highchair's removable top says, "Dishwasher Safe Tray" but what it should say is, "Only when you have a starving, screaming baby doing the plank to avoid being strapped into his highchair will you remember that you never cleaned the oatmeal-booger-drool encrusted layer that formed on this tray after breakfast, so just snap this sucker off and presto! There's a mostly clean tray underneath!" But kudos to Fisher-Price for advertising it as if I actually put the tray into my dishwasher to clean it, rather than just rubbing it with a wipe every few days. It makes other people think I clean things.

I mean, I do clean things. Or at least I make an attempt. Usually I start something, like wiping down the counters, and three to eight seconds in I hear, "Blah blah blah blah, YOU'RE NOT LISTENING TO ME! Blah blah blah blah" and then I have to go do something even worse than cleaning -- playing with a 3-year-old.

"But little kids love helping their moms clean!" you say. You must not have kids. Because if you did you would know that while kids do love helping their moms clean, their moms do not love having children. I meant their moms do not love having children around while they clean. And also the other thing you thought I meant.

It is so much easier to (insert any activity here) when you distract your little walking disaster with something shiny rather than trying to get her to participate. Not that I didn't try letting Nina help me clean. The Books say things like, "pitching in can be a great way for your little helper to feel like she is part of the family" and "if you don't let your sweet, innocent child help around the house, he will turn into a heartless, selfish, antisocial failure."

I was pumped! My house would be spotless and my kid would end up a well-adjusted failure instead of just a selfish one! But what The Books don't say is you better hire a construction crew to put your house back together after Teeny Tornado starts "helping."

Here is what you can expect when you ask your child for help:

Say: Be mommy's big helper and throw this diaper in the trash!
Expect: To clean poop off your walls.

Say: Let's all clean up after dinner!
Expect: To find a trail of smashed food leading from the dining room table to to the kitchen, the kitchen to the bathroom, the bathroom to your bedroom, and if you have an especially helpful child, from your bedroom onto every nice pair of pants you own.

Say: You can help sort the laundry!
Expect: To fold laundry for the rest of the day and still end up with a pile of unfolded laundry.

Say: Why don't you use your cute toy broom to help me sweep?
Expect: To be hit in the eye with a cute toy broom.

Say: Use this harmless wet paper towel to clean whatever you want while I use the real cleaner to do something useful.
Expect: To stop cleaning every three to eight seconds to pretend-spray the wet paper towel with 409.

Say: You can watch TV while I clean.
Expect: To spend several hours watching Busytown Mysteries and wondering why all of the adults are so stupid and all of the children drive cars shaped like food.

So go ahead and invite your little one to help out. At least it's more fun laughing at their attempts at "helping" than playing hide-and-seek for the umpteenth time.