Lawnmowers and Lunacy

I’m not burning the candle at both ends. The candle is long gone, it has erupted into a full-fledged forest fire, and many of those cute little bugs you see on nature shows are now screaming for mercy. It’s been a long couple of weeks.

On Monday, I went to school entirely exhausted. Now, nothing new here, but a conversation was playing out in my head as is also quite usual. And when I’m tired (or all the time, maybe) my face is completely dettached from my brain. Completely. I make faces. I give looks I don’t intend to give. I burst out laughing for seemingly no reason. I also laugh when I’m nervous or when I hang up the phone. No good reason, just weird that way.

Anyway. Here’s honest-to-goodness what was going through my head as I approached the door to the University:

       “It’s Monday. Did I take The Boy’s bottle home from daycare on Friday afternoon? I’m so tired, I don’t remember if I did or not. I don’t think I saw it in his cubby when I dropped him off. I wonder what would happen if I left him without one. They’d probably find and use another sterile bottle. They won’t let him starve, and I’ll call after class to make sure he’s ok.”

Heaven knows what my face was doing. Apparently, it was up to no good.

I reached for the door just as those last thoughts dissolved out of my head. The windows on the door are tinted, and I couldn’t see in until it was physically open. There was a girl there, and she was flipping me off.

“Keep looking,” she said. I was confused. Was she trying to tell me the door was locked? Or I missed some construction and couldn’t go in that way? Was she lost? Mistaking me for someone else? Do people REALLY flip others off when they’re not in a vehicle or freaking out on a private blog?

She threw her finger in the air again. “Keep looking!” She was furious. I couldn’t quite make out what she was saying, but as I passed her, my eyes (consciously this time!) got big.

“Yeah, you keep your eyeballs in your HEAD.”

I ignored her, but I was walking quickly between her and a flight of stairs. A uniformed campus security guard passed us and smiled. (Hellooo.. .helllp..) I had no idea what the nut behind me was capable of (and she had no idea what I might have done, either). I exchanged smiles and waves with the guy who cleans the floors, as I do everyday. She noticed this, of course, and asked him if he was my brother.

Then she followed me. Through two buildings. Screaming at my back the whole time.

I have zero idea what that was all about. Zero. I must have given her a look of some sort, but I honestly don’t know what my face was doing at that moment. I’m shocked that someone would act like that. If this were a different country, she’d maybe have a gun. Nuts.

Incidentally, after class, I walked back to my car alone. Here what I was thinking:

     “Wow, that class was weird. I’m so frustrated I could pummel a small animal to death. [Ok, and I NEVER WOULD.] If n! = n*(n-1)!, that works nicely for all positive integers. But 0! = 1 because 1!=1(0)!.. so it absolutely must. But what about 0! =0(0-1)! Can that even work? What gets precedence? The factorial or the multiplcation? And crap. What about negative integers? What’s the precedence? Where the hell do the extra parentheses go? Should I just find a squirrel, break its neck, and be done with it?”

And then I burst out laughing. So, anyone passing by would have seen me looking extremely puzzled for a few minutes, and then laughing hysterially out of the blue. Nice.

I got home. I had a small window of opportunity where I could mow the lawn. I don’t weed, seed, feed, water, or garden. But I love mowing. It’s instant gratification, and a control freak’s dream to see the blades go from long to short, long to short. Wonderful! The Girl is fine to play outside where I can see her without going near the mower. But I couldn’t very well leave The Boy outside, or inside, for that matter, while I did yardwork. So while they were still at daycare, I dug the lawnmower out of the garage and set out to mow.

Except it wouldn’t start.

I added gas. I checked the oil. I primed it about eight times. I fiddled with the spark plug. (I think it’s a spark plug.) I pulled that cord probably 20 times. Nothing.

Heard a lawnmower going a few doors down, and figured there would be little harm in going to ask for help. Either that, or I would have to wait another week at least to mow. Now remember, this is The ‘Hood, so even asking for help on a Monday afternoon can lead to a Tuesday morning newpaper article, “… and she was never heard from again.”

There were two girls and guy doing yardwork two doors down. I asked the guy (because he was mowing!) if he was any good with starting stubborn lawnmowers. He said he would take a look when he was done. And I thought, wow. Not everyone sucks all the time.

One of the girls came instead. I expressed my embarrassment at not being able to get it going, but I suppose after being in the garage for a winter of many -50 days, not starting was reasonable. I told her I’d pulled the cord 20 times.

She reached down, gave it a yank, and it started. On try 21.

Hopefully my face didn’t do anything stupid at that moment

So unsuspecting..

I left my Electronics class the other day and strolled through the physics department. Everything about the morning was average. I noticed this door.

It’s in a back hallway. A regular door by all accounts. Is it an office? A lab? Classroom? Nope.

BAM! Fifth dimension.

I don’t know the story behind this, but I’m hoping it was put up quietly without much fanfare. And I hope there’s a tiny little geek snickering in a corner somewhere, going about his day. It makes the dork in me very pleased. Very pleased, indeed.

I think that’s a Canadian thing.

I went to Kentucky last summer. It was the furthest south I’d ever been by a long shot. I met a friend who I’d never ever “really” met, but had kept in contact with for years as an internet pen pal. She was getting married, so it was finally great timing.

The town she lived in was quite small, and I found it refreshing. Everything about it was comforting. I’d grown up in a small town myself, and always enjoy snippets of rural living. Once I got past the southern accents and all the excited “YOU must be the Canadian!!” everything seemed pretty much the same as home. Except a few things. The bugs were different. I saw one in my friend’s hair once, and wasn’t sure if it would bite me or not. I panicked. She asked what it looked like while furiously trying to bat it from her hair. “Uhh.. it’s like… orange. Or red. Kinda like a June bug had sex with a ladybug and then exploded.” She calmed down and quickly removed it. Apparently it was harmless.

The candy was different. I’m not a big candy-eater, but there were no Cheezies. No buttertarts (I brought some with me), no Coffee Crisp. And the iced tea. She assured me before I left that the iced tea was the stuff I’d grown up on and drank every week in Canada. “It’s sweetened,” she said. I took my first sip. NONONONONONO. It’s different! In Canada, the iced tea is just brown sugar-water. It tastes like tea there! I’d never get used to it. Greens, dumplins, cornbread, okra — never heard of any of it.

We spent days discussing which brands and products were ”Canadian” and which were “American.” I was amazed by grits and Yoo Hoos, and made poutine for my friends there (the gravy was a little “off,” so I don’t know if they realize how freakin fantastic it really is). I was so caught up in this days-long conversation, that one morning (now, I was 3 months pregnant at the time, tired, cranky, and having some pretty strong cravings), when ALL I wanted was a bagel — every pore of my body and every ounce of my being was fixated on that bagel — and her new husband said “I think that’s a Canadian thing,” I believed him. (They’re Jewish, of course. And I did find one that morning.)

One more thing. When I walked in her mother’s house, I took my shoes off. Apparently that’s a Canadian thing? They all laughed a little and insisted I keep them on, but some Northern force ripped them off my feet at the front door.

This trip was almost a year ago, but something happened the other day that made me consider another “Canadian thing.” I was at the grocery store (you’ve been waiting for this story, I know). I bought some milk through the regular check-out, and then headed over to Customer Service. I had worked at the store years ago for a few months, and my old boss was behind the counter. She’s wonderful. Always friendly and kind, and was a great person to work for. And she she doesn’t know about this blog, so that’s saying something. ;) I was second in line. The lady ahead of me was returning a kettle, and I figured it was none of my business, so I stood back a few feet and waited my turn. My old boss saw me, smiled, and said she would be “right with me.” She remembered me, and it was a great feeling.

Then someone came behind the lady returning the kettle, and dropped off some film for developing. Well, fine. Maybe he didn’t see me. The kettle lady left, and just as I was going to approach the counter, two kids hurried in and asked about a movie. Ummm.. well, ok. They’re kids. I guess. Then another film developer. Then two people who needed cigarettes.

Twenty-five minutes in, I’m finally “first” in line. She looked at me and asked what I needed. “Just a lighter.” Maybe she was shocked I’d waited in line all that time and graciously allowed all the butters. She admitted she thought I was waiting to talk to her about a job (nope). All the while, I was silently fuming. That no one saw me, or no one cared. I could have walked out, could have freaked out. Could have said, “No no. It’s MY turn. I was AHEAD of you.” And yeah, maybe after six people bustled in front of me, it was my fault. I wasn’t feeling particularly friendly, and I was in no more or less of a rush than anyone else. It was just natural to grit through it. Maybe I’m just non-confrontational.

Maybe it’s a Canadian thing.

Survivor Challenge I: Mental Alertness

It’s time we have our first challenge. (I hear they do that on the show?) Now, of course this is tongue in cheek, because it can get dangerous. If you have small children already, skip it altogether. If you already have sleep problems, are a pilot or bus driver or diabetic, etc, etc.. do not attempt!

For the rest of you, here’s what you need to do:

Tonight, ask five friends to call you twice tomorrow (or, two friends to call you five times. Whatever). Have them ask you for a favour or make a small decision — something trivial, like, “Should I have another cruton in my salad?” This will simulate the mommy-look-at-this-mommy-can-I-have-mommy-look-what-I-can-do. Go to sleep tonight as usual.

Wake up at 7am. Go about your morning as usual, but before you leave the house, sit down and listen to two complete songs on the radio. This is the time it takes your preschooler to find her shoes. Go to work, go to school, or otherwise busy yourself (and we’re shooting for mental exhaustion here, so running for 6 hours and then saying you’re tired won’t cut it). When you get home, turn on the radio AND the tv. If it’s getting annoying, turn it up. This will begin to create an overstimulation effect. If you’re starting to go nuts, hit Walmart, McDonalds, or anywhere there are small children and large crowds. 

You may cook one hot meal of your choice, but you MUST wait until it’s cold to eat it. Anything else you eat must be eaten while standing or in your car (where again, the radio should be tuned — loudly — to a station you don’t like). Make sure your answer those phone calls!

You may turn the radio OR tv off at 8PM. Go about your evening as usual. You may not nap. Here’s the fun part: shortly after midnight, pick up a textbook: vector calculus, theoretical physics — whatever’s handy! — and read one chapter.

When you turn in for the evening, make sure to set your alarm to go off in two-hour intervals. Every two  hours throughout the night, get UP. Get OUT of bed, and STAY out of bed for 30 minutes Get a drink, brush your teeth, turn the radio and tv up, wash your floors, whatever. Do this until 7AM, and start over. Make sure that radio and tv are on loud.

You may drink as much coffee or tea as you need, but nothing stronger You may not nap, turn your phone off, or hit snooze. See how long you can go (and after a few days, if you decide to drive, you might as well be driving drunk at this level of sleep deprivation, so I highly recommend against it). Please report on any road rage, anyone you snapped at for no reason, any unusual hysteria, and anything you remember (but no cheating!) from your assigned readings. Let me know how long you last!

The ‘hood

The house across the street has been particularly busy this week. I’m pretty sure it’s a crack house, but I could be wrong. We keep to ourselves, mostly, and I honestly don’t think living in this neighbourhood is as bad as most people say it is. The night we moved in, I foolishly parked my car on the street instead of in the driveway or garage, and it was egged. Most houses don’t have driveways (much less garages) here, so a lot of cars on the street are prone to people walking by with markers or pieces of fence (!) or keys, and dragging them randomly across vehicles.

I had a security system installed soon after I moved in, with stickers on every window and a sign on a post in the backyard, warning others that there is, in fact, an alarm. Then someone stole the sign. Then the post.

One thing I like about living here is that I don’t need to try to keep up with the Joneses.. so to speak. I can stand outside barefoot with a baby on my hip. I can leave garbage bags on the back step until I make my way to the dumpster out back, I don’t need to grow flowers or fertilize or even water my grass. And if I only mow the lawn every 10 days, I still have the nicest lot on the block. I locked myself out of the house once, and approached the front door with a crowbar. (Well, what would YOU do?) One car slowed down, but did nothing.

Oh, and things like this crack me up.

 

This was sitting in the middle of the road — ever-so-randomly — one afternoon. I took a picture, and it was gone a few minutes later. So, someone either realized they’d dropped it from the back of a vehicle and went to retrieve it, or someone else stole it and got a new-to-them mattress. (The dumpster is also a great place to dispose of recyclables and semi-useful things without having to make a trip to either a recycling plant or the actual dump. It eventually gets picked up by someone who needs it more than I do.)

Mommy loves me, this I know.

It’s Mother’s Day again. It wasn’t a day free of poopy diapers and baby puke and whining or shopping with two kids in tow. My sister made us lunch (it was awesome), but other than that, it was a regular day. Or was it? I’ve found Mother’s Day to be a great time to reflect.

Five years ago on Mother’s Day, The Girl and I went to church. She was all of two months old, and it was my first Mother’s Day as a mother. After the service I was shocked when the man next to me wished me a Happy Mother’s Day. Someone who wasn’t even my kid. As the next few years went on, The Girl would come home from daycare with Mother’s Day treats: pictures she’d drawn, or other art her tiny little hands had “help” with. I loved all of them, and was genuinely surprised each time. Maybe I’ll never get used to the thoughtfulness of her care providers

This year was especially wonderful. The Girl came home from preschool with a candle holder she’d made out of a baby food jar, a picture of herself on the monkeybars, and this (which I plan to keep forever and ever):

 

Friday after school, I picked both kids up from daycare. The Girl surprised me again (no, really!) with a potted plant, and a fantastic piece of art. I love when she’s quoted, even if we all know she’s fibbing

 

And The Boy. I rushed in to get him, grabbed his jacket and hat from his locker, and heard one of the ladies who cares for him say, “Don’t forget your card!” I was shocked. I took a thin piece of yellow paper off the shelf, opened it, and my eyes immediately teared up.

 

My pregnancy with The Boy was hard. Not physically — it went as well as any pregnancy should go. I was in school, trying to make a better life for The Girl and I, alone, facing the social stigma of already having one child out of wedlock, financially just getting by, and I found myself pregnant. Again. Alone. I cringe at “unwanted,” but he was definitely “unplanned” and I had a really hard time accepting that I would have another mouth to feed, and honestly, had a hard time even accepting the pregnancy. Some days, I had wished it would just go away…

And then, this poor little thing, who’s beautiful and funny and full of smiles and never ever asks for anything except milk and snuggles made ME a Mother’s Day card. I flipped it open carefully.

 

But the only words I could see were, “I know it’s hard, Mommy. Thanks for having me.”

If I type this out, maybe it’ll go away.

I’ve been having this recurring nightmare since I was little (let’s say I was 6, cause I don’t remember when it started). For insanity’s sake, let’s italicize the dream sequences:

Initially, I’d be lying in bed, and a man dressed in black and wearing a black balaclava would appear in my doorway. Then I’d wake up. The dream progressed as the nights went on:

(I often slept in my mother’s bed when I was little, especially after a dream like this.) Anyway, I’d see a “fly-on-the-wall” view of my mother and I sleeping in her bed. And the man with the balaclava comes down the hallway and finds me there. Eventually, he pulls out a gun, and shoots me while I sleep. Sometimes I’d be following him down the hallway.. like a movie camera would, I suppose — it’s a dream. I can be watching and getting shot at the same time, I guess. In the last few dreams I remember from being 6, he’d turn around, see me watching him watch me sleep with my mother, and he would shoot ME (the watcher — confused?) as if shooting at the camera. (You know what? I don’t care if you’re following — this is today’s e-therapy!)

I think the dreams were always in black and white, but the man always came at night, and the hallways were darkened, so it’s hard to tell.

Now, I’ve never ever had my house broken into. I don’t think I even know of anyone who’s had a burglary, much less a balaclava-clad man come in a shoot them in their sleep. And I suppose it wasn’t even a burglary — he never took anything. He’d just shoot me, and I’d wake up (obviously).

Looking back, I think most of these dreams happened when my dad was out of town or working late… Well, maybe. They eventually went away, and until relatively recently, I’ve always had another grown-up under my roof. I’d feel especially safe in apartment buildings, because other grown-ups are still technically “under my roof,” and spitting-distance away.

OK. Now the dream is back. Except this time, there’s a twist. The other night, the man came to my bedroom door (in my dream, of course). I didn’t see what clothes he was wearing, but the balaclava was blue with red trim — definitely all in colour this time. My bedside lamp was on, as it is when The Boy goes to sleep. (He and I share a room, and his crib is about 2 feet from my bed.) Somehow, in the dream, I decide to make a dash for the bathroom, because it’s the only door in the house that locks. (Does it though? Not really. And the “outside door” is just as close.) I make a quick decision to leave The Boy sleeping in his crib because I cannot get to The Girl’s room AND the bathroom in one clean swoop. I figure they’ll be safe where they are, and as long as I don’t call attention to them, the man won’t even know they’re there. Though somehow, I feel terrible abandoning them (and wow. I see this as a single-mother-two-hands-can’t-save-both thing).

So I finally make it in the bathroom. I shut the door, and have miraculously managed to grab the portable phone. The odd thing about this dream, really, is that other than not really seeing the man’s body, there’s nothing out of place here. The house was how it actually looks. The colours and lighting were right, and things like the phone and doors were completely as they are normally. Same thing in my 6-year-old dream.

So I decide I need to call for help. I look at the keypad. I know it’s 9-1-1 that needs to be entered, but I keep hitting 9-1-2. And 7-2-1. (I’ve noticed numbers and letters frequently get jumbled in my dreams.) The man is on the other side of the door, and I know it. Then I woke up.

Although it’s with a grain of salt, I’m reading a book (somebody throw me a bone here and tell me how to include a link.. I’m that stupid) about dream interpretation. Apparently, all prophetic dreams are in colour, though the opposite is not always true. It may also be a “release” dream.. to let my subconscious mind really go through the worst-case scenario, and then reassure me that everything will be ok. (But… I died after being shot right? And in the recent one, I woke up before it got resolved.. so..) I do worry about someone breaking in, I guess. I have trouble getting to sleep at night. Even though I spend hours on end alone in the basement, I somehow think that the second the lights are off and I’m in my bed, someone’s on their way in. I must lie awake staring at the staircase for an hour or more EVERY NIGHT, making sure there’s no shinannigans in the basement. Sounds silly, I know. But again, see title of this post.

This book also says that when you dream about a house, the house symbolizes you. And the fact that someone’s IN the house, means either my privacy or safety are being violated, or both. But hey, that’s what break-ins are normally about.

So I’ll sit here quite insanely with my thoughts for a few more moments. Then head upstairs, and stare at the stairs like I always do. Eventually I’ll fall asleep, and the world probably won’t end. Probably.

Back to skool

After a 4-month hiatus, I am back at school! And ohhh, what a day. I am NOT a morning person, but I set my alarm for 8AM. And I was up by eight. Thirty. Ish. The Girl dressed herself before I even had to ask (what a sweetheart). I showered, dressed, fed The Boy, cleaned up the resulting vomit (I’m going to have to diaper his face soon, I think), made cereal for the girl, made coffee, combed hair, clipped nails, etc etc etc until 10AM. When I realized I hadn’t even emptied a backpack since December. ARGH. I found one, dumped it upside down, and threw in 2 pens, a fresh pack of paper, a calculator (mmm nerdy), my wallet, and my class schedule and we were out-the-door-let’s-go-let’s-GO and in the car with engine running by 10:13AM.

Drove to daycare and was back on my way to school 9 minutes later. Trying to not buy a parking pass this summer, I parked a block or so away (half in a 2-hour spot, half in a no-stopping spot). The paid parking area isn’t that much closer, really. It’s usually pretty nice here in the summer, and I might as well walk off that baby weight, even if it’s only 10 minutes at a time.

Finally got to the University with 20 minutes to spare. I walked in, and immediately sucked in a smell I didn’t know I’d been missing: old textbooks, sweat, and floor cleaner. It was wonderful, really. Off to class. Decided not to take the 4 flights of stairs up (I did take them down later!) and chose the elevator. I always like to rationalize my laziness by telling the next person to the elevator that it’s “too early” or I’m “just lazy.” This morning though, the next person who came was in a wheelchair, so I kept my mouth shut.

And I was early. By 10 whole minutes. That never, EVER happens. The class filled up: 26 guys, 3 girls. A guy who’s been in a few of my classes sat down next to me. Had his earphones at such a level the only thing I could hear was the *boom boom hiss* of his “music.” (Do these people think we can’t hear that?) He breathed loudly. Harummm.. Harummm.. He brought lunch, I guess. Again, I’m a vegetarian, and I’m not sure what animal died to make it in that tupperware container. Good Lord. The chewing sounds.

Side rant: I can’t stand loud smokers or loud eaters. If it’s crunchy food, fine. But I know people who can’t eat mashed potatoes quietly. Saliva swishing, jaw popping, nostrils flaring, throat gulping, nose hissing. It makes me sick. This may be a remnant of an eating disorder I spent years watching, or maybe it’s just genuinely gross. I dunno. And I wonder if most people even know they’re loud eaters.

All I could picture was the gristle between his teeth. He’d wash it down occasionally with a thwiiiiiip of a water bottle. chew, chew, pop, snnnnn, harummm, chew, pop, thwiiip. And all the while, boom boom hiss. I was so happy I only had coffee for breakfast.

Then I learned stuff. Walked back to the car, drove to the grocery store to pick up baby stuff (side rant on this one too… stay tuned!), and was back to daycare by 1:30PM. All told, my 40-minute class took five and a half hours. Tomorrow’s classes start at 9:30, so I should probably just pull an all-nighter.

24 years

So I’ve been reading news articles about Josef Fritzl and the daughter he kept in captivity for 24 years, fathering her 7 children (and if I ever figure out how to hyperlink, I’ll kick some references in). Even though this happened a half a world away, I think about it. A lot. I think about what her days were like. What went though her mind when that metal door began to open. What it would be like with no room to run or jump or play. What it would be like to eat and wear only what is brought. What kind of stamina it would take to endure years of rape and abuse and seclusion and 6 pregnancies with no prenatal care. Twenty-four years of torture with no friends, no sunshine, no moonlight, and probably very few smiles..

It’s so tempting — and so easy — to socially convict this man. So many people have decided his fate already — an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Throw him in his own cellar and let him suffer the same life. Well, I guess. Let him to go trial first. (I’m fiercely pro-life here, so capital punishment is a no-no in my books). But really: there’s a LOT to this story that no one understands, and no one will ever understand. Yet here comes the mobs, pitchforks in hand.

Here’s what I think:

I think — no. I KNOW — there is good in this story. I see a strong woman who survived and did the best she could for her family. I see a mother who cooked for and bathed her children, and sang them lullabies at night to calm them. A woman who suffered when one child died and when 3 were taken upstairs to live. A woman who endured 6 labours and deliveries alone. Who ate and did laundry and survived in miserable conditions, and who put her own fears aside and cared for others. I see the good in the love of a mother who pleaded for life when her eldest fell ill. A sick child who brought her parents to their knees in finally seeking medical care.

I see the good in the reuniting of both the prisoners with the family upstairs and of the entire outside world. The youngest child squealing in delight of feeling sunshine for the first time. Of having toys and talking to others. Yeah, they’re in for a lifetime of rehabilitation, and no, it’s not fair. It’s really not.

Finally, I see the good and compassion of countless hospital staff, police, social workers, and therapists who have stepped in to help this family. And there are at least a million others who have read the articles and stories and will maybe think twice the next time they look in their fridges and decide there’s nothing good to eat. Or there’s nothing good on tv. Or their kids are being too loud, their mattress is lumpy, their house is too small, the weather is just not perfect, or a friend is being unfair. 

I believe each and every God-given life has purpose. Each and every one. And perhaps this family was put in this situation to serve as a reminder to others: that freedom does not need first to be taken away to be taken for granted.

So, go for a drive. Sit in the sun. Kiss your babies. Enjoy. The day is yours.

 

 

This is your brain on no sleepppppp..zzzzzz…

Day 362 of sleep deprivation.

In my first trimester with The Boy, I was up every 90 minutes at night. Nature called, without fail. In my second trimester, I would get up every two or three hours. To eat. And in my last trimester, wow. I was just too fat to sleep. I’d toss and turn all night long, never really getting comfortable, constantly heaving my belly from side to side and back again. He liked to roll over a lot too, which was often painful.

Now, both kids go to bed at 8PM. I make coffee by 8:30. I know, I know, it’s silly. But these few precious hours at night are the only moments I have in the day that are mine. It’s so quiet and I love it. I read and watch tv or do laundry or dishes. It keeps the sanity level at a minimum.

The Boy wakes up at 12:30AM for milk. And I figure I might as well stay up til then, because going to bed at 11PM and sleeping for an hour is almost counter-productive. I feed him, and we finally settle back to sleep by 1AM or so. A few minutes later (so it seems), The Girl is often up with a nightmare about a panther in her closet, and crawls into bed with us (because Mommies have a blackbelt in panther-attack?) and maybe, maybe by 2AM, we are trying to sleep again, panthers at bay, but 4 little feet and 4 little hands are kicking and punching me in restless sleep. The Boy is up again around 3:30AM. More milk, and back to sleep. We’re up again by 5AM or so, because we lost a sucky and the panther is back. At 6:15, The Girl wants breakfast, and I mumble something that quiets her down and whisks her away to her room til 8AM. I get up, make copious amounts of coffee, breakfast for The Girl, and more milk for The Boy.

And that’s just the beginning of the day. The past 3 nights have been particularly horrendous. There’s the kind of tired where you’d had a long day at work, and you come home and put your feet up and relax with a book before going to bed early. Then there’s exhausted.. where you’ve moved your entire household in one day after months of planning and you finally get your bedroom arranged and flop down your bed for the night.

And then there’s this kind of sleep deprivation where you have this horrible sinking feeling that your brain is just not going to work. I see now how this kind of torture of prisoners may be effective. I mean, my brain just starts to break down. After a few minutes of looking frantically for my keys this morning, I forgot what I was looking for. Time was slipping by, and the clock really just didn’t make sense. I had those weird butterflies in my tummy, and while I try to normally be a walking Thesaurus, I couldn’t explain what even simple things were to The Girl. The words were all jumbled in my head.

So, judge me if you must, but I packed them both up and shipped them off to daycare. Just so I could sleep. I don’t even remember driving there.

Mmmm.. coffee.