Monday, January 31, 2011

I'm So Sleepy Mr. Poe

Morning Readers,

     I probably shouldn't be attempting to post today considering the night I had...but oh well.  Apparently, teething carries with it, among other things, three or four late-night rendezvous with your children. With a false sense of security, I'd foolishly looked forward to a solid eight hours of slumber, and subsequently indulged in that overly-sweet bottle of wine, sipping satisfyingly from, what I affectionately call, the Big Glass. Silly mommy...hangovers are for single people.

     Ok, let's back that up a bit. I'm not hungover. But I can say, with all authority in the world, that getting up at the witching hour, to stare at the crying baby staring right back at you, is made all the more difficult by wine. I was relaxed. I was dreaming. I was shaken rudely awake by hyena noises in the night. Each time I ventured into the neatly, gender-neutral decorated room my children dwell in, the only thing that kept coming to mind were the prolific yet off-beat wording of everyone's favorite party animal, Edgar Allen Poe.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'


You have to take a good hard look at yourself if you ever realize you've spent an entire night quoting The Raven to yourself, while wandering up and down the halls of your home, in your underwear, looking for A.) something to quench the terrible thirst you're nursing (Crystal Light drank straight from the glass pitcher in the refrigerator, works just fine), and B.) shuffling like a zombie to your child's room to rock them shakily back and forth, in the attempt to get them to sleep for another three hours or so...

As I type, I gaze lovingly at the coffee mug before me, my much respected source of Monday's energy. God bless Folgers and all the beans they grind into sweet, little pieces of joy. And God bless Mr. Coffee, who brews those little pieces into liquid happiness.

Until Next Time Readers!