Ok folks. Here’s how this all went down.
I’m lying in bed. It’s morning time. It feels, sorta, like I am doomed. And I keep hearing a weirdthwacking sound coming from down the hall.
But let’s back up.
I love to sleep. I mean, REALLY love to sleep. Sleep is my Ryan Gosling. It’s my warm chocolate chip cookies. It’s a warm Ryan Gosling SERVING me chocolate chip cookies…
If you get my drift–sleep is really important to me. And so our story begins.
As an English teacher, I know for certain every good story needs a worthy antagonist. I have two.
Here they are:
That flip flop must be really interesting, blond one.
I know, right? They are simply adorable. The wee blond one who seems to be transfixed by footwear is but four. Red head is three. They are just cuddly little nuggets of goodness, I tell you.
Except, of course, when they are not.
Case in point: the adorableness has anexpiration date. Well, rather, it expires at a certain time and that would be any time after Momsie goes to BED. Need I go over the (rather weak) Ryan Gosling analogy? The problem here is that the blond one seems to have a problem these days with “bad dweams.” Last night it was at three in the morning. A stubby finger poked somewhere into my blessed sleep and a sweet voice quivers, “Mommah? I hadda bad dweam.” Momsie tries to lift her head and says something understanding and all good-parenty like, “Oh sweetie. I am so sorry. Can you talk about it?”
Oh, so not a good idea.
This, it seems, is like telling a physicist to explain string theory. What followed was a forty five minute lecture on the subtle details and intricate plot twists involving a kangaroo and some lava.
I am not making this up.
There were numerous plot twists in the kangaroo saga. At one point, I had drifted off and so had, I thought, the blond…but no. He was just revving up for part deux of the story in which the kangaroos had stormed da HOUSE! And der was a lot of JUMPING! AND… (I’m just going to stop here because it’s not very interesting unless you are four and have issues.) There was a lot of gesticulating for emphasis, which upset the cat, who responded but clutching me with her claws, and I just had to lay there and stare at the ceiling and pray that I didn’t respond like this: I DON’T GIVE A FLYING FIG FOR MARSUPIALS, AND WE LIVE IN KANSAS! LAVA? REALLY? THINK. IT. THROUGH. I would also like to state, for the record, that the large blond (the husband) was sleeping peacefully during this whole escapade. Because, that’s his thing.
Anyhow. By the time the blond drifted off into de-kangarood sleep, I was now in my own Purgatory. Quite horrifically, my brain had switched on. And since it was still in that wretched hole of the night called 4 am, my brain was kind of… sputtering. It was like our old television that we had to smack before it would give us anything besides PBS’s Sit and Be Fit.
Specifically, my 4 a.m. Purgatory is entitled: I’m Really Tired but for Some Reason I am Now Worrying About Where I Left Our (and then fill in the blank here with some small but annoying object). I invite myself into this boxy hell about once a month, about the same time as I decide our house is A Total Mess and We Must Fix Everything. Sometimes I also like to mix it up and add I Really Need to Lose _____ Pounds. Pair that with I Must Learn How to Mill My Own Wheat and you have an insomnia cocktail.
And now here I am. There is that strange thwacking and a general sense of malaise. Here’s the rub: It was my day to post my first amazing entry for my blog! I had been revving up for this for a whole month! I was Braveheart ready to rally my troops! Because! Mommies!! (insert heroic music and a thick Scottish accent) They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our frrrreeeeedom!!!!! UNITE!!! Let’s get a cute kilt and some dreds and storm the castle!!!! This’ll best blog EVERRRRRR!!
Oh, and (insert sarcasm and drooping spirits here) surely, the great interwebs needs another mommy blog, right? If somehow I could also insert the sound that a balloon makes when it is pathetically sputtering out of air right now, I would. Great Scott, I have to be funny today. All I want to do is pull the sheets over my head and surrender. I am fresh out of funny.
And then, the thwacking’s source is revealed.
The red head enters the room, pulling his Lightning McQueen suitcase behind him. He stops, expertly snaps the handle down, and casually states: “I am ready to fly on da plane, Mommah.” He is, of course, completely naked. We are leaving for our family vacation soon, and I am thinking the kid likes to plan ahead for the TSA. He has a summer tan that is nut brown, but as he wheels the suitcase out of the room, his tiny little white bottom is a glowing beacon of all things good and adorable.
Oh heck yea I can be funny.
About the Author: At five years old: I’m perched at the living room table, the sun streaming in through large windows, clacking away at my old black typewriter. My stack of paper was neatly piled next to my Woodstock, and I was in heaven. I published masterpieces such as: “Cindy Has a Cough“ and ”The Cat Who Looses a Tooth.” Yes, I know. I was on fire. I wanted to be a writer. Not much has changed since then. This mothering gig came rather late in life for me; I didn’t have my first wee one (The blond) until I was 38 years old. Ancient. And the second wee one, The redhead, was at, gasp, 40. I know, right? But it has been an amazing journey. And the added bonus: my boys (husband included) supply me with massive loads of material. You can find me on the web at http://momsieblog.com