Thursday, October 3, 2013

The Midnight Tango

"If you're taking requests, "I'd like to hear, My Children Don't Sleep, and Now I'm Hallucinating."

Afternoon Readers,

It's a stormy day here in Kansas, and, while the winds are slightly intimidating, I refuse to be concerned with the weather unless it busts out a window and knocks over the box of Reeses Pieces I'm eating.

I'm actually hoping for a thunderstorm. I find them delicious and exciting. Not as exciting as candy-coated peanut butter, but thrilling enough to press my face against the glass and whisper, "This is really dirty glass. Who's supposed to be cleaning this place?"

Truth is, I'm a little behind on most of my chores. Now that the children are all moving independently in three separate directions, I find I'm left in the middle of a Bermuda Triangle of chaos, striving to pick up pieces of sandwich and catch the baby, before he free falls down the stairs.

(I've talked to him about this, and I found his excuse, maintaining he doesn't comprehend gravity yet, less than satisfactory . 

Like a willful bag of sand, that one.)

But it's not just during the day. Nay, all three are now conspiring to keep me up at all hours of the night. This baffles me on several levels. If you knew the woman you were depriving of sleep was the same one responsible for driving you places and not running all of you into a telephone pole, wouldn't you let her sleep?

Readers under the age of seven aren't allowed to weigh in on that question.

If the last few weeks have taught me anything, it's that children don't sleep through the night. 

Ok, sometimes they do.

Or they don't.

Don't ask me. I haven't slept through the night since early 2009.

To illustrate my point, I've put together a not-impressively-crafted time table of nights as I currently know them:

10:30pm - Close eyes. Appreciate the silence. Try falling asleep to the sounds of the house sinking into the ground.

11:00pm - Half waking, half asleep, I'm pulled from my bed by the sounds of a goat being hit in the head with a hammer. No, the baby's crying throwing his bottle against the crib bars. I was close.

11:15pm - Change baby. Put baby back in bed. Resist his attempts to play, "I lure you in with my cuteness and then slap you in the face when you try to kiss me." Stumble back to bed.

11:30-12:30am - Lie awake and wonder about the great questions of the universe. When exactly did brown shoes and black belts become a fashion faux pas? Early 1900s, I estimate.

1:30am - I wake and realize I'm holding onto Husband, declaring him, "A life raft in this sea of insanity." I fall back asleep.

2:00am - I'm awoken by small steps across the carpet."What?" I ask of the shape I can't see.

"I have to go potty."

"Then you're not the homeless person I was hoping was just squatting here for the night, intent on sleeping on my floor and not waking me up?"



2:15- 3:30am - I sleep a dreamless sleep punctuated only by sounds, I think, of people asking me for things.

3:30am - Someone's having a nightmare. I know because the bloodcurdling scream isn't my own. I pad across the hall and assure the dreamer she's safe and whisper something incoherent like, "If you were dreaming about Twinkies never coming back, don't worry because they were bought by another company."

5:00am - The baby is awake again but falls back asleep. Husband's also getting ready for work. I silently pray it's "Take Your Baby To Work Day."For the seventh day in a row, I'm disappointed.

6:30am - My eyes open on someone tapping me on the head. It's the girl who had a bad dream. She's repeating, "Breakfast," over and over.

"Could she wait for breakfast until 10am? Or possibly figure out how to throw a nice ham in the oven?" I ask.

"No." She replies.

I try to convince her this is just a dream and to go back to bed. She's not buying it. I drag myself toward coffee and the news. I read you can now get sensors which can detect if one is about to run into a telephone pole.

I buy three.

Until Next Time, Readers!