Skip to main content

Define Sleep.

At some point in this crazy fun house ride called parenthood, I figured I'd get a break, I figured that when the kids reached a certain age I would be able to get a normal nights sleep. But no.
I've been averaging between 4 and 5 hours of sleep a night which provides me with enough manic adrenaline induced energy to make it through the first 6 hours of the day. With well timed caffeine injections boosting me along I'm good for about 6 more hours. However, after that, it's all over. I can't sleep but I'm not really functioning as a conscious person.

I drool on the couch, grunt to my kids, raise my eyebrows at my husband and pray for sleep or death, which ever comes first.


By 9 p.m. I'm a quivering bowl of something that quivers in a bowl...like maybe, tomato aspic with beef tongue.

I digress.  

By 9 p.m. most good little girls and boys are in bed fast asleep, but because my kids are neither good nor little -- they are both so much better than good and tall for their ages-- I find myself stumbling, mumbling, incoherent but awake trying to herd them up stairs, chanting, "Pajamas. Teeth. Bed. Mercy. Uncle."

At at midnight, my son and I are finally able to drift away to slumberland snugged together in his twin size bed. Immobilized, wedged between a sweaty giant of a boy and a smelly giant of a dog, I sink and smother to sleep.


I pop awake from dreams of premature burial in time to shuffle into my own bigger bed. I need my down blankie, I need my feather pillow.  The dog usually follows me and I find myself once again wedged between a big smelly guy and a big smelly dog but I'm too tired to care. I cling to Blankie and Pillowy. It's going to be okay.


At 5 a.m. my alarm goes off and I jump out of bed, panicked, ready for a brawl, or a quick sprint away from whatever monster is obviously trying to kill me. After a cup of coffee, I've quelled my fight or flight response and I'm resigned to my fate.


Time to get moving, wrangle kids, nag, make breakfasts, do dishes, run off to work, run back home, figure out what the hell to make for dinner, help with homework, do the laundry, drool on the couch, dreaming of sleep with my eyes open.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Just don't call me Late to Dinner

A friend recently asked if I was ever called Maggie or if I'd always been a Margaret. That got me thinking about my name. I hate my name.  Hate it. I have never liked my name. It seems fine to call other people Margaret. It sounds agreeable enough when I say hello to another Margaret. "Hello, Margaret!" I might say. And the name doesn't offend me. It doesn't make me recoil or wretch. It's just a name. And a fine name at that. But it's not for me. I don't feel like a Margaret. It doesn't fit me well.  Hangs off me all funny and weird. Can't ever seem to wear it comfortably. I don't like to be called by name. Frankly, it makes me feel sort of sick.  When I was a chubby 3rd grader I decided I wanted to go by a nickname.   Peggy. I wrote it in my clumsy curly cursive on the front inside cover of my books.   I said it out loud to myself in the mirror. Peggy. Peggy! I liked it. First of all Peg...

possible blog material

possible blog posts for blogtober: 15 things you don't know about my left nut: 1. I don't have a left nut 2.  I do not even have a right nut As I can only get to #2, this idea needs fleshing out before I commit to it. Hahaha...fleshing out.  some things you don't know about my cat 1. I have a cat 2. she's a cat  3. she does cat things 4. she shits in a box   15 things I want to change about myself 1. fuck this shit 2. seriously 3. back off 4. you do not want to go down this path 5. really One billion (maybe this is too ambitious) observations made while sitting on the toilet  1. someone should really mop the floor  2. I need to get some new reading material in here,   3. I think the new Oprah magazine was in yesterday's mail  4. there are only so many times you can read about living your best life while sitting on the shitter  5. reading recipes while using the bathroom is sort of we...

Thinking about my son, jail, near death experiences, and hoping for the future

It's disconcerting when your 9 year old son asks if there are any jails in town that he could tour. My first thought, naturally enough, was that my son was planning a life of crime and wanted to see where he'd be spending 5-8 years of his life. But then I took comfort in the realization that my son is a dear darling boy who absolutely can not think past this moment. THIS moment. THIS MOMENT. He is the boy who tried to pick up fire, the boy who tried to put the knife in the toaster, the boy who ate his entire chocolate Advent calender in one sitting, never contemplating for a second what would happen next. The look of surprise and hurt after the touching fire thing was heart breaking. He was utterly disconsolate on December 2nd when he found he had no more candy and would have to watch his sister eat her stale misshapen chocolate stockings, stars, and bells, one each morning, for 24 days, in front of his very eyes. He was completely dumbfounded not not just a lit...