sleeping peacefully allowed to remain in bed because it's my birthday, even if it wasn't quiet enough to sleep really.
"Come give Mommy a birthday hug!"
I anticipated him wriggling up the side of the bed, jumping on me and showering my face with kisses, his arms wrapped around my neck.
"No, Moooooom, I have poop! Dad, you wanna' change my poop?"
How very thoughtful. Not only did he not wish to interject the offensive poop into my birthday snooze, he also had the decency to ask someone else to change it. On your birthday, you shouldn't have to deal with anyone's poop but your own*. If only he would start using the d*mn potty. Eventually, he climbed onto my bed - poop-free - and sang "Happy Birthday" to himself.
Once he uses the d*mn potty, my life will be pretty close to perfect, because I'll be able to organize the laundry room. No point in doing it before the Age of Waste-Related Reason, because his diapers and diaper-related items take up so much room in there. I can't wait. I've been on an organizing jag recently, all inspired by a makeover I performed on the top of my dresser. Which lead to sorting and tidying the drawers below. Which lead to an overhaul of the small older-than-dirt-Ikea-dresser-that-won't-die** in my closet containing my pajamas and underthings. Which inspired me to sort and organize my pocketbooks and shoes. Which ultimately effected the organizing of my hanging clothes. And the drawers in my bathroom. And my jewelry boxes. I now have a designated place for those extra buttons that come with clothes. I feel happy. So, so happy. I would take a picture, but have the decency to feel embarrassed about the number of pocketbooks and shoes I have.
The Tank has left for the gym with TF, the big kids are sleeping and I'm gearing up to go to the All-Local Farmers' Market at Rosewood. The fourth Saturday market is my favorite, because it's close to my house.
This has nothing to do with anything I just said, but I need to share. Have you seen these signs?
I saw one, at Burger King in Lexington. I thought it was a prank. I thought it was so funny, I pulled a u-ey and took a picture. Several days later, I saw the same exhortation on another Burger King sign. I happened to be on the phone with my friend Angela at the time***. She happened to be on her computer and Googled, only to learn "ANGRY WHOPPER FEEL THE HEAT" is a new marketing campaign. Somebody needs to get fired. Don't know about you, but I picture a greasy hamburger, teeth bared, chasing me down the street and growling, "FEEL THE HEAT! FEEEEEEEL IT!" And the hamburger is bigger than I am. And angry. The Whopper has good cause to be angry at me, too, given how many of them I consumed in my youth without appreciating the amazing curative properties. One reason I gained so much weight in my first pregnancy (eighty pounds, yo) is morning sickness felt like a hangover, which I knew from experience could only be cured by a Whopper Combo with cheese, no onions and a Diet Coke. Of course, I didn't want my baby to have three heads, so I substituted full-calorie Sprite for the Diet Coke. Or maybe the Whopper is just angry because I dumped it as I approached my thirties and was no longer able to maintain a lady-like weight and eat Whoppers five six times a week let's be honest here every day. Whatever the reason, Burger King, I do fear the angry Whopper and I do feel the heat. I fear the angry Whopper will catch up with me and exact revenge by making me gain those eighty pounds back, along with the eighty pounds I gained while pregnant with the X-Man and the mere thirty I piled on for the Tank. No, Whopper, no! Let me be!
Anyhow, today is my birthday. I'm going to the Farmers' Market, coming home and setting my hair, maybe going to the gym to ward off the return of the Angry Whopper and cooking a big dinner. And don't be mad at my husband. I like cooking and have asked him to remove everyone, especially the Tank, from our home and let me cook in peace. What a gift!
Namasté, y'all!
P.S. For the curious: The reason my closet and dresser were such a mess is because I was pregnant with the Tank. When you get pregnant, you wear a bunch of different sizes over a period of two years and your closet organization gets all shot to hell. "Two years?" you novices might be asking. "Really?" Well, yes. There was the brief, three-month pregnancy before the Tank that ended in mis-carriage. Early pregnancy necessitates "fat clothes." During the two months in between that and getting pregnant with the Tank, I needed depressing clothes. There were more clothes to hide my pregnancy with the Tank, because after a miscarriage you might be a bit gun-shy and don't want to announce your new pregnancy right away. Then came the maternity clothes, followed by the post-partum clothes (non-maternity clothing in a larger size so you don't feel like a fat hag.) A couple months after he was born, I started on the back-to-my-normal-weight-except-for-in-the-boob-department clothes, followed by the slightly-smaller-boobs clothes. Now I'm pretty much the size I was before each pregnancy.
* Frankly, any time TF is home, diaper changing duties belong to him. I am not a nice wife.
** Did you got to college with me? You might remember the dresser. It will not die. Even the cardboard drawer bottoms remain intact, although they do pop away from the plastic drawer backs and have to be slammed back together. And, yes, I should buy a new dresser, but I have fantasies about a California Closets makeover that would include built-in drawers, so I don't want to spend the money. Maybe I'll have the closet and the laundry room done at the same time. Did you just get chills? I did.
*** Yeah. I talk on my phone while driving. I drive better on the phone. It keeps me awake.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Happy Birthday to me!
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Miles to go before I sleep. But who needs to go?
demon offspring darlings, "sleeping like a baby" would mean waking up and crying every thirty minutes to an hour, wanting to be held and rocked all night and soiling one's pants, occasionally so much so the sheets would have to be changed before you went back to sleep. That isn't at all how I slept when my family was gone.
I went to sleep whenever I wanted, one night at around eleven, the next night at around two a.m., after blogging in bed. Sexy, huh? I woke up between eight and nine in the morning, refreshed. I didn't feel like I would die, or at the very least weep, if I didn't get a cup of coffee within seconds. I know there are people out there like me who understand that I'm not joking. They know how physically painful it can be when someone tries to talk to you when you've just woken up and haven't had enough sleep. There's a rage that can be hard to control. I feel that way most mornings and I really don't know what to do about it, short of moving out. And moving out isn't really an option, because I love this house and, okay, the other people who live here with me.
Yesterday, my family came home. Last night, I went to bed around eleven, with my husband. Baby J, more toddler than baby, has finally started sleeping upstairs. Guiltily, I watched two episodes of "Coupling"on the laptop in bed. I know, I know. You aren't supposed to bring the computer to bed and all that. And you definitely aren't supposed to bring it to bed to watch a show that probably annoys your husband to no end. He didn't say anything, but laugh tracks make him feel the same way I do when I get woken up in the morning, livid. And I'm sure it didn't help that I was adding to the annoying laugh track with my own inane giggling. In spite of all that, he managed to fall asleep, like he always does (lucky b**tard). I was getting sleepy too, so I turned it off and drifted, for a few seconds.
I was woken up by the sound of his snoring. And slurping. Yes, ladies, he slurps in his sleep. I hope I've prevented any infidelity by admitting that. Can you really have a steamy affair with a married guy with three children who slurps in his sleep? I know he's hot, but is it really worth it? To seal the deal, you should know that the slurp reminds me of another slurp that used to keep me awake, years ago. That was the slurp of my best friend's dog, who slept in her room, and liked to self-soothe by licking his...you know, what dogs lick that humans can't reach, but totally would if they could.
So the slurping and snoring kept me from going into a deep sleep, but I drifted off a bit, not enough to survive an exclamation by Baby J. He was probably dreaming. His dreams are pretty realistic, so he yells things like, "MINE!" and settles immediately, probably after grabbing the thing back in his dream. Unlike me. His short noises manage to startle me out of my hard-won sleep. I lie awake, heart racing, for at least fifteen minutes before I start to drift again. And the snoring recommences. Are you sensing a pattern here?
At some point, I had a horrible, terrifying dream. It involved me being hired to play stand-up bass for an orchestra. I was on stage and couldn't find the sheet music. Never mind that I've never played bass in my life, nor do I have any musical talent, unless you count rocking out alone in the car, after ensuring that all of the windows are closed. There was a gospel choir singing and I couldn't enjoy it, because I was shuffling through all these papers in my chair on the stage, where I was about to play. There were moments of calm, like when I thought I could just pretend to play, but then I realized I was the only bass, and people would notice. And no one was helping me. They all had their parts memorized, knew how to play their instruments and were relaxed and eating sandwiches. I didn't even have a sandwich, or a drink. I was crying as I shuffled through all the garbage by my bass. I finally woke up, heart racing. It took me a few minutes to calm down.
I tried to go back to sleep once everyone was awake, but that never works. I feel guilty and I know my husband is irritated with me, because he actually got up with the baby. I was too groggy. And when I get up with the baby, I can never go back to sleep. Neither can Baby J for that matter. My insomnia rubs off on him*.
Some women have post-partum depression. I have post-partum anxiety and it lasts for years. I get better as the baby gets older, usually around the time they sleep through the night. When people say a baby sleeps through the night, they usually mean for five to seven hours at a stretch. That is not my definition. I need to know that, once the kid goes to sleep around seven or eight o'clock, he won't wake up until morning - my morning, seven or eight a.m. - unless he has a stomach bug. In my limited experience, this usually happens by the time they're three. We're two thirds of the way there. Obviously, I'm a light sleeper. I think my anxiety is triggered by lack of sleep. But what can I do about it, short of running away from home?
We've tried, by the way, having my husband sleep in the far-away guest room with the baby, since they are the two things most likely to interrupt my sleep. That's not an option at the moment, because it's occupied by a young French woman. Don't worry about our marriage, by the way. She's my husband's cousin, here for a short visit before she goes to work at a camp in North Carolina.
I'm going to Washington next weekend to see my oldest son sing with his choir and to visit my sister, but I really just want to sleep. As much as I like her, I'm looking forward to the rest more than her company. Will someone please tell me how to fix this? I don't know if I can make it another year.
Namasté, y'all.
* This footnote is just to see if anyone reads these. The other day, a friend and I were talking about a couple we know. The husband is nuts. And I said, "I think his 'nuts' has rubbed off on her." Now say that sentence out loud, with a real country accent. Please tell me that's as funny as we thought it was.
Monday, February 11, 2008
When you see Fair walking down the street, let me know.
"That's not faaaaaaaair!,"
I had a friend, who had a mom, as most of my friends did. This mom was a comedian, like most moms in the seventies were. When we would whine about the lack of fairness in the world, she would invite us to sit and look out of her living room window.
"You just sit right there, sweetie, and when you see Fair walking down the street, call me, because I sure would like to know what she looks like!"
Ha, ha, ha. So, while I understand the futility of trying to determine what's fair and what isn't, I still need to whine every now and then. You know what isn't fair? The fact that I don't get enough sleep. My husband snores, which he claims isn't his fault. I'm not so sure about that, but I can't prove it. The baby still wakes up at night, often in response to the husband's snoring. I've tried putting him (the baby) in another room, but he wakes up anyway and we just have to go farther to get him. I've also tried putting him (the husband) in another room, but his snoring is loud enough that distance doesn't really help. And, to be honest, I miss him. One of the reasons I got married is so I wouldn't have to sleep all by myself. I get lonely. The snoring keeps me awake and, as soon as that ends and I go to sleep, the baby wakes up. Gah! I swear, the two of them are in cahoots. They want me to be tired all the time. Must be because I'm so charming when I haven't had enough sleep. Not.
Sometimes, life is really unfair. Like when I can't sleep because of the snoring and I go into a panic because, for almost a minute, the snoring stops, along with the breathing of my irritating, but much-loved husband. Then he starts breathing again, with a barking whoop and a huge snort. Like, the hugest snort you've ever heard or imagined. It's the snort to end all snorts. I recorded it once and my tape recorder burst into flames*. The snort is so loud that it wakes him up (probably our neighbors, too, but that's not my problem.) And when it wakes him up, he rears his sleepy head, sits up in bed, glares at me and says,
"SHHHHHHHH!!!"
Like I've made some horrible noise, deliberately, just to wake him up. I admit that I've been tempted, when he's in a deep sleep and I'm lying awake, to bark in his ear, really loud, just so he knows how it feels to wake up in terror. But I haven't done it, because waking him up would just start the cycle all over. But, um, it's so not fair that he gets mad at me in the middle of the night, when I haven't done anything. And then I have to lie awake for at least ten more minutes feeling self righteous. Sorry, I had to say it. And now I'm off to look out the front window, in case Fair is out for a jog.
Namasté, y'all!
* That's not true, I just said it for effect. Sorry.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
My husband, who is actually a good dad and an equitable sort of person, was still born a rich white child and raised by a doting, martyrish French mother and self-absorbed, demanding Serbian father. And it shows. When we were first together, he was cooking dinner, which he learned to do very well from his French mother but has forgotten in recent years. He was cutting an onion to add to the lamb chop gravy. Normal, except he was STANDING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE KITCHEN cutting the onion, oblivious to the peel landing on the floor. It was like he thought (or more likely didn't stop to consider) that there was a Special Magic Kitchen Fairy that would come behind him to clean up.
Even though he's almost 40, he still believes in the SMKF. This is such a cliché that I can barely stand to type it, but I don't understand why he can't just put his bowl in the dishwasher instead of in the sink, which is mere inches from the dishwasher. And I don't understand why he expects the SMKF to wipe his crumbs up (with the Special Magic Kitchen Sponge, which rests mere inches from the crumbs.) And I totally don't get why he'll leave a non-stick pan in the sink "to soak" before the SMKF flits in to clean it. The SMKF does not like to wake up to a stinky pan, a bowl encrusted with granola and stinky yogurt and crumbs on the counter where she makes her coffee. And, by the way, because the SMKF doesn't wake up early enough to make coffee, he has to go to Starbucks every day. He used to make coffee well, but this is another skill that went by the wayside when his income increased.
The SMKF would get up to make coffee, but she is clinging to precious moments of sleep that were stolen by the Annoying Snoring Sleeper (you figure out that acronym for yourself) and the Adorable But Demanding Nursing Baby (ABDNB - this is getting old - anyone with suggestions for something better can jump right in.) And the worse part is, no matter how often the SMKF complains or explains, no matter what tone she uses, no matter when she chooses to say or scream it, the fact remains that the SMKF is the only one who cares. The ASS is perfectly happy with bad smells and sticky things and crusty stuff under his feet, because he's just walking around in his sand encrusted, un-wiped tennis shoes anyway. Even though the SMKF has asked him not to and left mats conveniently located outside of each door. And I'll spare you a repetition of the story about the time ASS flushed a banana down the toilet, because everyone I know has heard it and it's funnier and more detailed when I'm kind of drunk anyway.
So, last night was a rough night with Baby J. The Magical S had been with the boys so ASS and I could go to lunch (sushi) and see "The Bourne Ultimatum" (totally awesome, by the way, and has led ASS and I to believe that we must work very hard to become way more stylish and badass.) Although we had a great afternoon, sans enfants, it led to random nap times for Baby J, which led to a slightly more difficult night. He didn't go to sleep until 10 pm and woke up every few hours to chat. He woke up at 6 am or so to chat and didn't go back to sleep until 6:30. And I'm guessing at those times because I was in a lack of sleep induced fog.
During that half hour, I had to go to the bathroom so bad I almost wet the bed, but I was paralyzed. I couldn't get up because that might have woken Baby J up for the day. ASS was nowhere to be found, so I couldn't ask him to help (help in this case would mean patting Baby J on his cute little bum in case he stirred while I was gone.) He finally went back to sleep and I went to the bathroom. But then, ASS started making noise in the kitchen, clinking his spoon against his bowl, and in the bathroom, carefully choosing his outfit for 8 am church, which he had decided to go to on the one morning when I might be able to catch up on my sleep (yesterday he went to Yoga at 8 and during the week he works. But don't ask me to feel sorry for him for having to go to work every day, because I'm not in the mood and I don't tolerate martyrs, much to ASS's chagrin.) By this point, X (aka Cute Little Chicken Head) was also in my bed and kicking me; the combination of the kicking and ASS's noisy clanging, stomping and primping woke Baby J. So, it was 7:30 am, everyone was awake (if you count my addled state as awake) and ASS was all dressed up and ready to walk out the door.
I got mad (nope, you're not getting a description or the transcript of the very unChristian things I said) and ASS sighed, just a WEE-bit over dramatically, that he would stay home to "help" me, even if he meant skipping church, which he had wanted to go to for ages. Well, I absolutely refuse to stand between a man and his religion, so I made him go. I think I'll point out to him when I get home that there are short lunchtime services during the week that he could attend if he's not busy worshiping at the altar of Barbeque Lunches with His Friends. I think ASS really appreciates my helpful suggestions.
And all was well. Until I walked into the kitchen and saw his bowl of crusty granola and stinky yogurt in the sink, with a spoon stuck in the congealed mess. And I felt angry again. But decided to be all Yoga-like about it and not be angry.
I recently participated in a workshop led by Desirée Rumbaugh. She talked about defining enlightenment and said that a truly enlightened person never needs to argue. And I'm enlightened, so I don't need to argue with anyone who says I'm not, because I am. So there! It was actually similar to something I told the boys recently. As they were clobbering each other in the backseat of my car, I shouted, "YOU KNOW, AN ARGUMENT WITH ONLY ONE PERSON IS NOT AN ARGUMENT. IT'S JUST ONE GUY FREAKING OUT." They stopped and I explained that, if they didn't argue back, we could just laugh at the one guy freaking out. Not quite as articulate as Desirée, but compare our audiences. So, I was being all enlightened and I decided that I would not argue with ASS about the fact that I was going to leave when he got home and spend the rest of the day blissfully alone. Which I am doing. He walked in the door and I almost acted unenlightened when I saw the Starbucks cup, but I let it go, knowing that I would soon be drinking my own barista-made drink (local, though, not Starbucks, thankyouverymuch.) He tried to be all passive aggressive about my taking the laptop (Guess what I'm typing on right now. Ha! Not that I argued about it), but he decided to take the high road and let it go.
In a nutshell (so I guess you could have just skipped to this part. Maybe you did), I was mad because ASS thinks he can decide to go somewhere without checking in with anyone and I can't. It seems that, no matter how equitable our relationship seems, I am still ultimately responsible for the children. He will never quite understand, although he's been told, that it's a luxury to have children and not know every detail of their medical and dental history. It's a luxury to have three children and never have to go to a parent teacher conference or bring cookies to school for a bake sale. It's a luxury to have a SMKF and not even know the name of the medication she takes every day. It's a luxury to not have to think about what the SMKF worries about or how she feels because you are too caught up in your own worries. It's a luxury to listen to her once in a while and assume that every thing's fine because she doesn't bug you about it again. You can enjoy those luxuries, but you can't make the SMKF like you.
So, I'm hanging here in a coffee shop, BLOGGING on ASS's office laptop and killing time until Yoga, which is three and a half glorious hours from now. It's the dawn of a new age for the recently one year old Baby J. Next up: overnights!
