I spent so much time working on "who I am", defining my existence, making a niche for myself in this world. It was important to me. It was a driving force behind all of my decisions. I wanted to stand out, be unique, an individual, a rare example. It turns out that none of it mattered. I was selfish and didn't know it. I know it now.
Not everything changed once I got pregnant. That's when it started, but I was still over confident. I thought I had it all figured out. I could continue working full time. We could live comfortably in this cute little house I bought. We would be healthy and happy and want for nothing.
When I first held him in my arms I became a mama bear. Nothing mattered except him. For the first time ever, I was focused on someone other than myself. The intensity of this feeling overwhelmed me. The sight of him had me grinning uncontrollably. I cried tears of joy at the very thought of him. I forgot all about my needs, desires, and comfort and spent up every ounce of energy into giving myself completely to this tiny ball of life that I created.
Suddenly who I was, and who I used to be no longer mattered. The only thing that matters is who I am now. My children do not know or even care about who I was. They only know me for who I am now. I try to be the best mom I can be for them. I try really hard and some days I feel like I failed them. Other days I don't try at all and I feel successful. I do it all for them. I am focused on them instead of myself. I let the old me waste away. She's no longer important. Her dreams have faded and instead have been replaced by the new hopes and dreams of what I want for my children. I want them to be happy, healthy, and good.
When you have a critically ill child, this feeling intensifies a hundred-fold. Nothing else matters but him. It is hard to even think about simple things like eating, sleeping, & hygiene. There are a zillion other things to worry about and stay focused on. And time is precious. Why waste time doing stupid, non essential things when you don't know how much time you really have. It is frustrating.
I define myself now by my children. Who they are, is what I am. I am nothing without them. The thought of losing him... it would be like losing myself. Who am I without him? I would be nothing. I am scared.
Showing posts with label deprivation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label deprivation. Show all posts
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Make Room For Mommy
Sleep is one of my favorite things in the world.
Some people like money, I like sleep. Some people want money, I want sleep. Some people desperately yearn for money, I... think you get my point.
I have memories from childhood of favorite places I liked to sleep. The top bunk where I'd stare at the ceiling until I dozed, camping in a canvas tent on a cot snuggled inside a sleeping bag, and in the backyard in the grass, listening to the chirping of birds and buzzing of insects.
As a teen and young adult, sleeping became an art I perfected. I was good at it. Long stretches, 12-18 hrs at a time, and at any & all hours of the day & night you could find me practicing. I could sleep in any position, anywhere, anytime, any place and through any noise. I would joke that there could be a jackhammer outside my open window and I could sleep right through it. I did some modeling for an art class in college once where I used to fall asleep standing up while holding a pose for the students to paint. The professor would have to wake me when class was over.
Ahhh, those were the days. Sleep rained down on me like pennies from heaven. No, more like bars of gold. Now, I would settle for pennies.
It wasn't until I became pregnant with Ryan that I started having sleep trouble. It was not as bad as what most women experience during pregnancy, or so I've read and been told. I did my research and was prepared to lose a few Zs. For the most part, my pregnancy with Ryan was spectacular. I was full of energy, eating super healthy, looked and felt beautiful, and I only gained 18lbs. (I was overweight to begin with so I'm sure it was more like I gained 48 but lost 30 due to the lifestyle change.) I even worked 40+ hours a week right up until I was admitted to be induced because I was two weeks late. Being pregnant with Ryan was the best I had ever felt in my life. But there were a few, maybe a dozen, nights that I just could not get comfortable. I slept, just not as deeply or as happily as I did before.
I never had a label as far as "side sleeper" or "back sleeper", etc. Until then I believe I slept differently every night, whichever position suited me at the time. But now that I was pregnant all I really wanted to do was lie on my belly, but obviously that plan was thwarted. I researched sleep positioners and read articles on the proper pregnancy sleep positions. I even bought some expensive piece of foam that guaranteed me a restful night. I had propped myself up with so many pillows that poor future Big Daddy R had only a tiny edge of our queen size mattress to lay on. For that and other reasons, he eventually moved to the couch (temporarily) to get a good night's sleep.
The term "bun in the oven" is not far from the truth because I truly felt like an oven baking a constantly rolling ball of dough. My stomach felt 100 degrees hotter than the rest of my body. I slept with my belly uncovered, with sheets and blankets and comforters covering the rest of my body, even early on in my pregnancy which was in the winter. In the summer, a fan positioned about a foot from my bulge was set to high, in addition to a window air conditioner which was not far from the bed either. Many nights I ran into that fan or tripped over it while running to the potty. I later ended up climbing over Big Daddy R to avoid the hassle, much to his displeasure, which is another reason why he moved to the couch.
One night when I did sleep deeply, we awoke in a puddle and panicked. "Is it time?" Nope. Calm down. It's just pee. Apparently I was so deep in la-la land that my bladder let loose with the kick of the baby's foot before I could even open my eyes. Yet another reason for the couch.
Everyone was telling me about how I would never sleep well again once I had kids and I really, truly, thought they were exaggerating. "Come on now", I thought, "It can't be all that bad!"
Enter baby: crying, screaming, teething, gassy, playful-at-all-hours-of-the-night baby. And fate laughs.
While my pregnancy with Ryan was wonderful, my labor was agonizingly long much in part to being induced. I can still remember the how the nurses kept trying to push sleeping pills on me in the beginning telling me that I needed to rest up and that I needed to save my energy for when things started going. I refused again and again until Robert finally yelled at them to leave me alone and stop trying to push their drugs on me. I hated being induced. I was one of those naive moms-to-be that wrote a birthing plan and proudly handed out copies to every doctor and nurse that entered the room. It detailed how I wanted no intervention what-so-ever, unless in emergency, or if I changed my mind which is the right of every woman. I didn't want to be induced but the doctors insisted since I was two weeks late. Oh how fate likes to mock me!
Nothing went according to MY plan. I ended up with an epidural, and suction to pull him out, just stopping short of a C-section. And through 36 hours of hard labor, I somehow managed to stay awake through it all. According to Big Daddy though, I did pass out in between strong contractions, and woke right back up a minute later to push again and again. And after it was all over, I was too excited to sleep. Oh I dosed here and there, an hour or two at a time, but I was filled with amazing hormones that gave me energy and the delusion that I was indeed Wonder Woman.
The first few months I was a zombie. But a carefree super-hero zombie. Any tiny peep and I was right there, wide awake and ready to solve the problem. I know they say you shouldn't play with them in the middle of the night, but I just couldn't resist. I was so in love and amazed at this tiny creation that I didn't really mind the lack of sleep. I saw it as a badge of honor.
We eventually experimented with all kinds of baby-sleep aids: sleep positioners, swaddling, vibration, rocking, music and sound machines. As it turned out, he loved the sound of chirping birds and preferred to be uncovered, able to stretch out. He also had an insatiable appetite and wanted to eat about every hour or two. So into our bed he came much to the dismay of our doctor and contrary to the words of all the baby experts I had read.
Big Daddy R suggested a new bed to accommodate our growing family, and so he could get off the couch and join us. A ginormous king size bed was agreed upon, or more likely, the salesman saw an easy commission. We have a tiny house with even smaller rooms. This bed takes up almost the entire room. We have a hip-wide path on either side and between the dressers at the foot of the bed. It's a tight squeeze. I remember thinking it was unnecessary and ridiculous to have such a huge bed. But the salesman assured us we would need it. He must have had kids. And the fates chuckle once again.
Although the new bed was heavenly comfort, its purpose was wasted on me. I returned to work full time when he was 3 months old. After an entire night of feeding, I woke early to go work out at the gym. I lost another 45 lbs. These hormones were amazing I tell ya!
He was a snuggler and being a mommy in love, so was I. His favorite position was to wedge his big melon under my chin and smash his face on my neck, which turns out to be rather uncomfortable for me. He also loves to stretch out his body in every direction, pushing me to the edge of the bed. I would wake up with a sore back because I would tense all my muscles to prevent myself from falling off the edge of the bed during the night.
Meanwhile, Big Daddy slept like a hibernating bear, growling away, enjoying a generous half of the luxurious cushion of slumber. And the sweet little snoozing baby was stretched out like a Chinese star. And here I was, sleeping on less than 12".
The worst part though was the heat. I lovingly referred to him as "my little hot-box" and more accurately, "my little sweat-head". It seemed he had been the source of all of the volcanic activity in my belly during pregnancy. And like then, I discovered a fan, blowing right on him, to be a soothing solution.
He was finally sleeping all night through by six months. We did the whole cry it out thing with him in his own crib and in his own room. And yes, it was agonizing for us. We sat up in our big bed listening to him scream, taking turns checking on him every five, then ten, then fifteen minutes, being sure not to say a word or crack a smile or make eye contact... for two whole hours straight... for less than a week. At the time, I had no idea how lucky we were. It seemed he enjoyed sleep as much as I did. The birds, the fan, and being able to stretch out in his own space was all he needed. Now there were a few rough nights later on when he was two and started having night terrors, just after we changed the crib into the toddler bed. But by then I could handle a few nights of briefly interrupted sleep. So for a while I had a nice big bed all to myself, and the snoring grizzly bear, and finally got some rest. That is, until I got pregnant again.
It wasn't until I was pregnant with Rowan that I understood what other moms were going through. She is the complete opposite of Ryan in every way. Hindsight has shown me that I had it made with my first. He was my easy baby, and Rowan is my challenge. I had trouble right from the start with my pregnancy, from simple aches & pains, swelling, & morning-noon-&-night sickness, to the more serious hospitalizations for dehydration, kidney stones, & C-diff, not to mention all of the sleep deprivation. And unlike Ryan, she shot out of the cannon after a brief six hours of easy, all natural (lest the requested epidural) labor.
At first, she was a wonderful baby. As long as her belly was full and her mouth was plugged with boob, she slept through most nights. Now I nursed my first until he was 14 months and he liked to eat about every hour or two for the first six months, so I figured I was a pro at nursing. But no, this baby showed me I knew nothing. My nipples cracked and bled and I cried out in pain all the time. I needed a break, but she insisted, and I gave in, trading my comfort and sanity for a little sleep. But with each new tooth came weeks worth of sleepless nights. In addition, it seemed she caught every virus (respiratory, stomach, or otherwise) that came along and then gave it to all of us just as she was recovering: so more months worth of interrupted night time peace. Sick and tired doesn't even begin to cover what I was feeling. I thought it couldn't get any worse.
Then Ryan was diagnosed with cancer. That's when I really learned about sleepless nights. I spent two months at his bedside in the PICU, too worried to sleep. When I did nod off, out of sheer exhaustion, I either had terrifying nightmares or dreamless voids of blackness, which never seemed to rejuvenate me. When I had the time and opportunity to sleep (thanks to Ronald McDonald House right next door to the hospital), I found I simply could not sleep for more than a few hours because the worry ate me up inside. I would leave the hospital, begrudgingly, around 11pm. I would shower, read, and nurse the baby for hours straight, and eventually I would fall asleep. But I ended up leaving the room at 5AM to head back to him. I hated being away from him for even a second.
Once we were home, there was a period of adjustment for all of us. Separation anxiety caused Rowan to nurse all day and night long. Every three weeks we returned to the hospital for treatment, which meant a couple of sleepless nights on an uncomfortable couch for me. I eventually learned to sleep again, once I learned to not worry so much. It's a work in progress. And then there were more problems looming just around the bend.
More teething, weaning, and milk allergies led to more months of lost Zs. Granted, poor little Rowan suffered the most from all of this, including all the confusion and separation anxiety from everything that was happening around her. So after weeks of trying to get her to sleep in her own bed unsuccessfully, we allowed her to continue to sleep with us. Once we solved the milk-allergy problem, we found that she sleeps quite well in her own crib. But each new tooth sends her back to our bed. But now that she was no longer nursing at 13 months (my choice - not hers), she devised a way to be as close as possible to me. It involved practically climbing on top of me, particularly my head, and hitting me with her hard-as-a-boulder-noggin. She is restless, constantly moving during the night, and babbles in her sleep. For someone so petite, she sure knows how to throw around her weight. I start her in the center of the bed and she mysteriously works her way to the center of my pillow. Again, I am left with a few inches of bed.
After everything Ryan's been through we allow him to sleep in our bed on occasion. At first it was so we could cuddle and hold him and cry ourselves to sleep: happy tears that he is still with us. But there are times when he is in pain, or feeling ill from the chemo and just needs the comfort of his mommy & daddy to get some sleep. We oblige. He still is a sweat head. And still manages to push me over to the edge.
Usually it's either one or the other, but there are too many nights when they are both in our bed. So there is just no room for mommy. There are times I wake up catching myself rolling off the edge. The times I have resorted the chair or couch have resulted in increased back pain and even more grumpiness. So I just reposition the sleeping babies and make the most of my few inches of bed.
Now a-days, bedtime isn't so bad. We have a night time ritual of toy clean up, teeth brushing, pjs, stories, sippies of water, and tuck in, along with their favorite "sleepy music" CD playing in the background. Most nights the crying lasts a few minutes, or not at all. Some nights I actually get cuddle time with Big Daddy R. And on occasion, I actually do get some sleep, even when they are hogging the bed. One of my favorite Beatles songs describes it best...
Being greeted by smiles and smothered in kisses in the morning makes it all worth it. And whether or not I manage to get some shut-eye, life is golden. Eventually, maybe in a few years, I will finally be able to sleep like I used to. And those golden bricks of sleep will rain down from heaven and knock me out! (Is that fate laughing?) The kids had better be out of our bed by then, but I still expect the smiles and kisses!
Some people like money, I like sleep. Some people want money, I want sleep. Some people desperately yearn for money, I... think you get my point.
I have memories from childhood of favorite places I liked to sleep. The top bunk where I'd stare at the ceiling until I dozed, camping in a canvas tent on a cot snuggled inside a sleeping bag, and in the backyard in the grass, listening to the chirping of birds and buzzing of insects.
As a teen and young adult, sleeping became an art I perfected. I was good at it. Long stretches, 12-18 hrs at a time, and at any & all hours of the day & night you could find me practicing. I could sleep in any position, anywhere, anytime, any place and through any noise. I would joke that there could be a jackhammer outside my open window and I could sleep right through it. I did some modeling for an art class in college once where I used to fall asleep standing up while holding a pose for the students to paint. The professor would have to wake me when class was over.
Ahhh, those were the days. Sleep rained down on me like pennies from heaven. No, more like bars of gold. Now, I would settle for pennies.
It wasn't until I became pregnant with Ryan that I started having sleep trouble. It was not as bad as what most women experience during pregnancy, or so I've read and been told. I did my research and was prepared to lose a few Zs. For the most part, my pregnancy with Ryan was spectacular. I was full of energy, eating super healthy, looked and felt beautiful, and I only gained 18lbs. (I was overweight to begin with so I'm sure it was more like I gained 48 but lost 30 due to the lifestyle change.) I even worked 40+ hours a week right up until I was admitted to be induced because I was two weeks late. Being pregnant with Ryan was the best I had ever felt in my life. But there were a few, maybe a dozen, nights that I just could not get comfortable. I slept, just not as deeply or as happily as I did before.
I never had a label as far as "side sleeper" or "back sleeper", etc. Until then I believe I slept differently every night, whichever position suited me at the time. But now that I was pregnant all I really wanted to do was lie on my belly, but obviously that plan was thwarted. I researched sleep positioners and read articles on the proper pregnancy sleep positions. I even bought some expensive piece of foam that guaranteed me a restful night. I had propped myself up with so many pillows that poor future Big Daddy R had only a tiny edge of our queen size mattress to lay on. For that and other reasons, he eventually moved to the couch (temporarily) to get a good night's sleep.
The term "bun in the oven" is not far from the truth because I truly felt like an oven baking a constantly rolling ball of dough. My stomach felt 100 degrees hotter than the rest of my body. I slept with my belly uncovered, with sheets and blankets and comforters covering the rest of my body, even early on in my pregnancy which was in the winter. In the summer, a fan positioned about a foot from my bulge was set to high, in addition to a window air conditioner which was not far from the bed either. Many nights I ran into that fan or tripped over it while running to the potty. I later ended up climbing over Big Daddy R to avoid the hassle, much to his displeasure, which is another reason why he moved to the couch.
One night when I did sleep deeply, we awoke in a puddle and panicked. "Is it time?" Nope. Calm down. It's just pee. Apparently I was so deep in la-la land that my bladder let loose with the kick of the baby's foot before I could even open my eyes. Yet another reason for the couch.
Everyone was telling me about how I would never sleep well again once I had kids and I really, truly, thought they were exaggerating. "Come on now", I thought, "It can't be all that bad!"
Enter baby: crying, screaming, teething, gassy, playful-at-all-hours-of-the-night baby. And fate laughs.
While my pregnancy with Ryan was wonderful, my labor was agonizingly long much in part to being induced. I can still remember the how the nurses kept trying to push sleeping pills on me in the beginning telling me that I needed to rest up and that I needed to save my energy for when things started going. I refused again and again until Robert finally yelled at them to leave me alone and stop trying to push their drugs on me. I hated being induced. I was one of those naive moms-to-be that wrote a birthing plan and proudly handed out copies to every doctor and nurse that entered the room. It detailed how I wanted no intervention what-so-ever, unless in emergency, or if I changed my mind which is the right of every woman. I didn't want to be induced but the doctors insisted since I was two weeks late. Oh how fate likes to mock me!
Nothing went according to MY plan. I ended up with an epidural, and suction to pull him out, just stopping short of a C-section. And through 36 hours of hard labor, I somehow managed to stay awake through it all. According to Big Daddy though, I did pass out in between strong contractions, and woke right back up a minute later to push again and again. And after it was all over, I was too excited to sleep. Oh I dosed here and there, an hour or two at a time, but I was filled with amazing hormones that gave me energy and the delusion that I was indeed Wonder Woman.
The first few months I was a zombie. But a carefree super-hero zombie. Any tiny peep and I was right there, wide awake and ready to solve the problem. I know they say you shouldn't play with them in the middle of the night, but I just couldn't resist. I was so in love and amazed at this tiny creation that I didn't really mind the lack of sleep. I saw it as a badge of honor.
We eventually experimented with all kinds of baby-sleep aids: sleep positioners, swaddling, vibration, rocking, music and sound machines. As it turned out, he loved the sound of chirping birds and preferred to be uncovered, able to stretch out. He also had an insatiable appetite and wanted to eat about every hour or two. So into our bed he came much to the dismay of our doctor and contrary to the words of all the baby experts I had read.
Big Daddy R suggested a new bed to accommodate our growing family, and so he could get off the couch and join us. A ginormous king size bed was agreed upon, or more likely, the salesman saw an easy commission. We have a tiny house with even smaller rooms. This bed takes up almost the entire room. We have a hip-wide path on either side and between the dressers at the foot of the bed. It's a tight squeeze. I remember thinking it was unnecessary and ridiculous to have such a huge bed. But the salesman assured us we would need it. He must have had kids. And the fates chuckle once again.
Although the new bed was heavenly comfort, its purpose was wasted on me. I returned to work full time when he was 3 months old. After an entire night of feeding, I woke early to go work out at the gym. I lost another 45 lbs. These hormones were amazing I tell ya!
He was a snuggler and being a mommy in love, so was I. His favorite position was to wedge his big melon under my chin and smash his face on my neck, which turns out to be rather uncomfortable for me. He also loves to stretch out his body in every direction, pushing me to the edge of the bed. I would wake up with a sore back because I would tense all my muscles to prevent myself from falling off the edge of the bed during the night.
Meanwhile, Big Daddy slept like a hibernating bear, growling away, enjoying a generous half of the luxurious cushion of slumber. And the sweet little snoozing baby was stretched out like a Chinese star. And here I was, sleeping on less than 12".
The worst part though was the heat. I lovingly referred to him as "my little hot-box" and more accurately, "my little sweat-head". It seemed he had been the source of all of the volcanic activity in my belly during pregnancy. And like then, I discovered a fan, blowing right on him, to be a soothing solution.
He was finally sleeping all night through by six months. We did the whole cry it out thing with him in his own crib and in his own room. And yes, it was agonizing for us. We sat up in our big bed listening to him scream, taking turns checking on him every five, then ten, then fifteen minutes, being sure not to say a word or crack a smile or make eye contact... for two whole hours straight... for less than a week. At the time, I had no idea how lucky we were. It seemed he enjoyed sleep as much as I did. The birds, the fan, and being able to stretch out in his own space was all he needed. Now there were a few rough nights later on when he was two and started having night terrors, just after we changed the crib into the toddler bed. But by then I could handle a few nights of briefly interrupted sleep. So for a while I had a nice big bed all to myself, and the snoring grizzly bear, and finally got some rest. That is, until I got pregnant again.
It wasn't until I was pregnant with Rowan that I understood what other moms were going through. She is the complete opposite of Ryan in every way. Hindsight has shown me that I had it made with my first. He was my easy baby, and Rowan is my challenge. I had trouble right from the start with my pregnancy, from simple aches & pains, swelling, & morning-noon-&-night sickness, to the more serious hospitalizations for dehydration, kidney stones, & C-diff, not to mention all of the sleep deprivation. And unlike Ryan, she shot out of the cannon after a brief six hours of easy, all natural (lest the requested epidural) labor.
At first, she was a wonderful baby. As long as her belly was full and her mouth was plugged with boob, she slept through most nights. Now I nursed my first until he was 14 months and he liked to eat about every hour or two for the first six months, so I figured I was a pro at nursing. But no, this baby showed me I knew nothing. My nipples cracked and bled and I cried out in pain all the time. I needed a break, but she insisted, and I gave in, trading my comfort and sanity for a little sleep. But with each new tooth came weeks worth of sleepless nights. In addition, it seemed she caught every virus (respiratory, stomach, or otherwise) that came along and then gave it to all of us just as she was recovering: so more months worth of interrupted night time peace. Sick and tired doesn't even begin to cover what I was feeling. I thought it couldn't get any worse.
Then Ryan was diagnosed with cancer. That's when I really learned about sleepless nights. I spent two months at his bedside in the PICU, too worried to sleep. When I did nod off, out of sheer exhaustion, I either had terrifying nightmares or dreamless voids of blackness, which never seemed to rejuvenate me. When I had the time and opportunity to sleep (thanks to Ronald McDonald House right next door to the hospital), I found I simply could not sleep for more than a few hours because the worry ate me up inside. I would leave the hospital, begrudgingly, around 11pm. I would shower, read, and nurse the baby for hours straight, and eventually I would fall asleep. But I ended up leaving the room at 5AM to head back to him. I hated being away from him for even a second.
Once we were home, there was a period of adjustment for all of us. Separation anxiety caused Rowan to nurse all day and night long. Every three weeks we returned to the hospital for treatment, which meant a couple of sleepless nights on an uncomfortable couch for me. I eventually learned to sleep again, once I learned to not worry so much. It's a work in progress. And then there were more problems looming just around the bend.
More teething, weaning, and milk allergies led to more months of lost Zs. Granted, poor little Rowan suffered the most from all of this, including all the confusion and separation anxiety from everything that was happening around her. So after weeks of trying to get her to sleep in her own bed unsuccessfully, we allowed her to continue to sleep with us. Once we solved the milk-allergy problem, we found that she sleeps quite well in her own crib. But each new tooth sends her back to our bed. But now that she was no longer nursing at 13 months (my choice - not hers), she devised a way to be as close as possible to me. It involved practically climbing on top of me, particularly my head, and hitting me with her hard-as-a-boulder-noggin. She is restless, constantly moving during the night, and babbles in her sleep. For someone so petite, she sure knows how to throw around her weight. I start her in the center of the bed and she mysteriously works her way to the center of my pillow. Again, I am left with a few inches of bed.
After everything Ryan's been through we allow him to sleep in our bed on occasion. At first it was so we could cuddle and hold him and cry ourselves to sleep: happy tears that he is still with us. But there are times when he is in pain, or feeling ill from the chemo and just needs the comfort of his mommy & daddy to get some sleep. We oblige. He still is a sweat head. And still manages to push me over to the edge.
Usually it's either one or the other, but there are too many nights when they are both in our bed. So there is just no room for mommy. There are times I wake up catching myself rolling off the edge. The times I have resorted the chair or couch have resulted in increased back pain and even more grumpiness. So I just reposition the sleeping babies and make the most of my few inches of bed.
Now a-days, bedtime isn't so bad. We have a night time ritual of toy clean up, teeth brushing, pjs, stories, sippies of water, and tuck in, along with their favorite "sleepy music" CD playing in the background. Most nights the crying lasts a few minutes, or not at all. Some nights I actually get cuddle time with Big Daddy R. And on occasion, I actually do get some sleep, even when they are hogging the bed. One of my favorite Beatles songs describes it best...
Once there was a way to get back homeward
Once there was a way to get back home
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby
Golden slumbers fill your eyes
Smiles awake you when you rise
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby
Being greeted by smiles and smothered in kisses in the morning makes it all worth it. And whether or not I manage to get some shut-eye, life is golden. Eventually, maybe in a few years, I will finally be able to sleep like I used to. And those golden bricks of sleep will rain down from heaven and knock me out! (Is that fate laughing?) The kids had better be out of our bed by then, but I still expect the smiles and kisses!
Saturday, July 23, 2011
No Rest For The Winey
AMAZING!
The kids are in bed by 9.
NINE! Both kids! And not just in bed, sleeping too!
I decide to celebrate with a glass of wine. Luckily, I have a bottle. This too, is also amazing. Bottles are not something I have the luxury of adding to my shopping cart on a regular basis. The stars align when there is a sale, I have a coupon and/or there is a nice rebate, or I am a half crazed midnight shopping lunatic after a stressful little-monster-rearing day. I believe this particular purchase was the result of all 3.
And this isn't just a bottle. This is a put-you-into-a-coma-if-you-attempt-to-drink-it-all-by-yourself vessel. I bought it in the hopes of having someone to share it with, a friend perhaps. Big Daddy R doesn't drink so I am usually solo on the stumbling. And there is not much time for socializing when you have a germ-avoiding paranoia, for good reason, as well as an incessant need to be on my toes for any emergencies that may arise. The very thought of being intoxicated or away from the house if/when something awful were to happen causes a panic in me you probably can't imagine.
But tonight all is well, I am safe at home with a perfectly capable Big Daddy R, and they are fast asleep. What could possibly go wrong?
Most times when I feel the need to have a glass of wine I grab my favorite Food Network Food Show wine glass head across the street to the neighbors. The Porch Dwellers, as most in my neighborhood affectionately call them, have a seemingly endless supply of bottles and are always eager to pour. They love the company and the stories of mayhem I share. I must be like a live-action version of bad reality TV series for them. No wonder they keep pouring.
It usually takes place shortly after dinner, when the little Rs are still up causing trouble and messes still litter the floor. I get that glossy look in my eye, slip on my shoes, and with glass in hand, and halfway out the door, I holler to Big Daddy R that I'm gonna go chat with the neighbors a bit, tipping my glass in his direction. He nods and reluctantly concedes. He knows what that means. He is on his own for the bed-time routine. I practically run across the street and pretend not to hear the crash of the next disaster that is taking place inside while Big Daddy R desperately tries to round up the wild stallions.
It is my one escape and thankfully he lets me have it. He who occasionally goes in to work at 6AM when the regular start time is 9AM, who also occasionally comes home well after 6PM no matter when he starts, who is the sole supporter of our family unit, who still somehow has energy enough to play with the kids after all that hard work and agrees to watch them for me, all alone, while I indulge in a forbidden luxury... time to myself... a lil R & R.
But tonight is different. Tonight I have air conditioning, my laptop, comfy Pj's, a cork screw, and a large glistening glass. I'm all set.
I eagerly twist the screw into the imitation cork and begin to pull. It's not budging. I twist a little more, push down the wings of the cork screw and try again. Maybe a centimeter. Ugh! I repeat the process until I am sure the screw is undoubtedly adequately wedged in the cork and attempt to pull once more. I am careful not to knock over any dirty dishes that still sit on the counter, that I pretend not to see. I am tempted to grab the screw between my molars and tug but quickly decide that would be a BAD idea.
Big Daddy R hears me grunting from the next room. "What on Earth are you doing in there?" he asks. At first I am frozen like a guilty teen who has just been caught eyeing a beer in the fridge. But I am an adult. At least most times I am. And I am allowed to have a glass of wine if I want to. "Hello? Is everything alright in there?" he asks again.
"Fine." I grunt, "Just trying to open this bottle of wine." He offers to help but I have the determination of a child who doesn't understand or believe in impossibilities. I give one last tug and slowly wriggle the plug free.
Success! I pour my glass more than half full and proceed to my throne in the living room. Once settled in, I take one sip, then one long gulp. Ahhh!
I set the glass down and start to work on my laptop. As I drift off into digital space I am hurled into reality by a soft subtle whimper coming from above.
Oh No! Immediately my shoulders slump. I look to Big Daddy who looks at me with raised eyebrows as if to say, "it's you they want." I quickly grab my glass and take several large gulps as the volume increases into a duet of their favorite nighttime serenade, To Mommy with Love. I squeeze my eyes shut trying to ignore it. It's no use. I hammer out a few words on my blog, hit save and close it up. Taking one more gulp I scramble out of my chair and up the stairs.
After consoling and diaper changes, they drift back off to sleep and I quietly tiptoe back down stairs to greet my glass. I return to my typing and for about an hour I get some uninterrupted peaceful R & R.
More cries. I scoot upstairs and manage to get them back to sleep then return to my wine and writing. After finishing my glass and my post, I head upstairs to get some sleep. It's about midnight.
I am awoken by more cries at 1. More consoling, then back to bed. The dreamless sleep that followed was a well-needed but short-lived escape.
I am groggily awakened by a repeated thud. The sound is coming from inside my head. And for some reason the outside of my head hurts too. This could not possibly be a hangover. No, I only had one glass! I push away the thought and try to go back to sleep but the banging is persistent.
Slowly, I start to realize that I am being hit on the head by a hard object. I reach up to touch a fleshy and hair covered globe. Confused, I force my eyes open and see little R. I stop her from hitting me one last time with her head and reposition her on the pillow next to me. She is still asleep. She likes to be right on top of me when she sleeps in our bed. I am too tired to even question the strange behavior.
I start to drift back to sleep but am awakened again by the sobering realization of "Why is she in our bed? How did she get here?" She recently learned how to scale her sleep-prison (crib) but I dropped it down to the last notch and thought she couldn't possibly climb out of that let alone mount our king size bed by herself, without a peep, and without waking the entire household.
I look over and see Big Daddy R is in bed too and conclude that he must have brought her into our bed after another rousing chorus that I obviously slept through. It is too late to spend another second thinking about, so I sigh and return to my pillow. I glance at the clock, 4:30. I got three and half hours straight, now that's amazing!
I close my eyes only to find them flying open again minutes later, just as I was drifting off. I had that creepy feeling that someone was watching me. I roll over quickly and come face to face with the older R standing beside my bed with an arm load of stuffed animals.
"Can you help me Mom" he asks. What?" I can't even comprehend. He asks again and I suddenly realize what he wants. I oblige, taking the fluffy creatures from his overloaded arms one by one and tossing them behind me to the center of the bed, just careful enough not to hit the sleeping giant and mini me. A caterpillar, a puppy, a giraffe, a bear, a glo worm, a kitty, another puppy, and a bunch of not-so-fluffy toys including a mini computer, a glow board, a few die cast cars and the dreaded leaky sippy join us on the bed. He climbs up and I bury my face in the pillow determined to doze.
Whining and nudging ensue.
"What are you trying to do?" I beg. I roll over to see him on his hands and knees next to my legs trying to wedge himself between me and little R.
"But I wanna sleep by you." he whines. "Move baby Ro over! Put her in her own bed!" he demands.
"No," I firmly press, "She's asleep. I can't move her. If you want to sleep in here then climb next to Daddy. There's room over there. There's plenty of room in this bed for all of us." Obviously not room enough for me as I later discover in a forthcoming post.
He reluctantly crawls over and snuggles next to Daddy and at last I dose off to sleep just around 5:30.
A cold wet puddle creeping quickly down my side wakes me with a start. I jump out of bed so fast that I fell into the wall. I want to curse but grit my teeth. I look at the bed to see the leaky sippy turned upside down draining into the valley where my body once lay sleeping soundly... but briefly, as it is now only 7:30.
I grab the sippy and put it on the night stand while noticing that everyone else is asleep, even the cat at the foot of the bed. I definitely do NOT want to wake them now with a sheet change. Tiptoeing to the bathroom, I peel off my Pj's, clean my sticky side with a baby wipe, and grab a towel. I pull the first t-shirt my hand finds out of the dresser and pull it on, pretty sure it's backwards and inside out. Placing the towel over the puddle, I crawl back into bed.
Morning comes at 8:30 with little R's kisses planted all over my face. Just as I was starting to sleepily smile and try to open my eyes, she slaps me in the face and then promptly kisses it again. I don't even have time to react. I hear more kisses but they are not for me. This time they are for brother R who giggles with delight at the affection. He crawls over to me and covers me with kisses as well. What a way to wake!
Big Daddy R is still snoring.
The morning birds start bouncing all over me in the bed until I agree to get up and get them some breakfast and sippies of milk. I manage to stand and realize the puddle soaked through the towel and onto my t-shirt which is indeed inside out and backwards. I don't mind.
The positive energy in the room is contagious. Although I barely got any R & R, I am in a good mood. How could you not be when covered with kisses?
The kids are in bed by 9.
NINE! Both kids! And not just in bed, sleeping too!
I decide to celebrate with a glass of wine. Luckily, I have a bottle. This too, is also amazing. Bottles are not something I have the luxury of adding to my shopping cart on a regular basis. The stars align when there is a sale, I have a coupon and/or there is a nice rebate, or I am a half crazed midnight shopping lunatic after a stressful little-monster-rearing day. I believe this particular purchase was the result of all 3.
And this isn't just a bottle. This is a put-you-into-a-coma-if-you-attempt-to-drink-it-all-by-yourself vessel. I bought it in the hopes of having someone to share it with, a friend perhaps. Big Daddy R doesn't drink so I am usually solo on the stumbling. And there is not much time for socializing when you have a germ-avoiding paranoia, for good reason, as well as an incessant need to be on my toes for any emergencies that may arise. The very thought of being intoxicated or away from the house if/when something awful were to happen causes a panic in me you probably can't imagine.
But tonight all is well, I am safe at home with a perfectly capable Big Daddy R, and they are fast asleep. What could possibly go wrong?
Most times when I feel the need to have a glass of wine I grab my favorite Food Network Food Show wine glass head across the street to the neighbors. The Porch Dwellers, as most in my neighborhood affectionately call them, have a seemingly endless supply of bottles and are always eager to pour. They love the company and the stories of mayhem I share. I must be like a live-action version of bad reality TV series for them. No wonder they keep pouring.
It usually takes place shortly after dinner, when the little Rs are still up causing trouble and messes still litter the floor. I get that glossy look in my eye, slip on my shoes, and with glass in hand, and halfway out the door, I holler to Big Daddy R that I'm gonna go chat with the neighbors a bit, tipping my glass in his direction. He nods and reluctantly concedes. He knows what that means. He is on his own for the bed-time routine. I practically run across the street and pretend not to hear the crash of the next disaster that is taking place inside while Big Daddy R desperately tries to round up the wild stallions.
It is my one escape and thankfully he lets me have it. He who occasionally goes in to work at 6AM when the regular start time is 9AM, who also occasionally comes home well after 6PM no matter when he starts, who is the sole supporter of our family unit, who still somehow has energy enough to play with the kids after all that hard work and agrees to watch them for me, all alone, while I indulge in a forbidden luxury... time to myself... a lil R & R.
But tonight is different. Tonight I have air conditioning, my laptop, comfy Pj's, a cork screw, and a large glistening glass. I'm all set.
I eagerly twist the screw into the imitation cork and begin to pull. It's not budging. I twist a little more, push down the wings of the cork screw and try again. Maybe a centimeter. Ugh! I repeat the process until I am sure the screw is undoubtedly adequately wedged in the cork and attempt to pull once more. I am careful not to knock over any dirty dishes that still sit on the counter, that I pretend not to see. I am tempted to grab the screw between my molars and tug but quickly decide that would be a BAD idea.
Big Daddy R hears me grunting from the next room. "What on Earth are you doing in there?" he asks. At first I am frozen like a guilty teen who has just been caught eyeing a beer in the fridge. But I am an adult. At least most times I am. And I am allowed to have a glass of wine if I want to. "Hello? Is everything alright in there?" he asks again.
"Fine." I grunt, "Just trying to open this bottle of wine." He offers to help but I have the determination of a child who doesn't understand or believe in impossibilities. I give one last tug and slowly wriggle the plug free.
Success! I pour my glass more than half full and proceed to my throne in the living room. Once settled in, I take one sip, then one long gulp. Ahhh!
I set the glass down and start to work on my laptop. As I drift off into digital space I am hurled into reality by a soft subtle whimper coming from above.
Oh No! Immediately my shoulders slump. I look to Big Daddy who looks at me with raised eyebrows as if to say, "it's you they want." I quickly grab my glass and take several large gulps as the volume increases into a duet of their favorite nighttime serenade, To Mommy with Love. I squeeze my eyes shut trying to ignore it. It's no use. I hammer out a few words on my blog, hit save and close it up. Taking one more gulp I scramble out of my chair and up the stairs.
After consoling and diaper changes, they drift back off to sleep and I quietly tiptoe back down stairs to greet my glass. I return to my typing and for about an hour I get some uninterrupted peaceful R & R.
More cries. I scoot upstairs and manage to get them back to sleep then return to my wine and writing. After finishing my glass and my post, I head upstairs to get some sleep. It's about midnight.
I am awoken by more cries at 1. More consoling, then back to bed. The dreamless sleep that followed was a well-needed but short-lived escape.
I am groggily awakened by a repeated thud. The sound is coming from inside my head. And for some reason the outside of my head hurts too. This could not possibly be a hangover. No, I only had one glass! I push away the thought and try to go back to sleep but the banging is persistent.
Slowly, I start to realize that I am being hit on the head by a hard object. I reach up to touch a fleshy and hair covered globe. Confused, I force my eyes open and see little R. I stop her from hitting me one last time with her head and reposition her on the pillow next to me. She is still asleep. She likes to be right on top of me when she sleeps in our bed. I am too tired to even question the strange behavior.
I start to drift back to sleep but am awakened again by the sobering realization of "Why is she in our bed? How did she get here?" She recently learned how to scale her sleep-prison (crib) but I dropped it down to the last notch and thought she couldn't possibly climb out of that let alone mount our king size bed by herself, without a peep, and without waking the entire household.
I look over and see Big Daddy R is in bed too and conclude that he must have brought her into our bed after another rousing chorus that I obviously slept through. It is too late to spend another second thinking about, so I sigh and return to my pillow. I glance at the clock, 4:30. I got three and half hours straight, now that's amazing!
I close my eyes only to find them flying open again minutes later, just as I was drifting off. I had that creepy feeling that someone was watching me. I roll over quickly and come face to face with the older R standing beside my bed with an arm load of stuffed animals.
"Can you help me Mom" he asks. What?" I can't even comprehend. He asks again and I suddenly realize what he wants. I oblige, taking the fluffy creatures from his overloaded arms one by one and tossing them behind me to the center of the bed, just careful enough not to hit the sleeping giant and mini me. A caterpillar, a puppy, a giraffe, a bear, a glo worm, a kitty, another puppy, and a bunch of not-so-fluffy toys including a mini computer, a glow board, a few die cast cars and the dreaded leaky sippy join us on the bed. He climbs up and I bury my face in the pillow determined to doze.
Whining and nudging ensue.
"What are you trying to do?" I beg. I roll over to see him on his hands and knees next to my legs trying to wedge himself between me and little R.
"But I wanna sleep by you." he whines. "Move baby Ro over! Put her in her own bed!" he demands.
"No," I firmly press, "She's asleep. I can't move her. If you want to sleep in here then climb next to Daddy. There's room over there. There's plenty of room in this bed for all of us." Obviously not room enough for me as I later discover in a forthcoming post.
He reluctantly crawls over and snuggles next to Daddy and at last I dose off to sleep just around 5:30.
A cold wet puddle creeping quickly down my side wakes me with a start. I jump out of bed so fast that I fell into the wall. I want to curse but grit my teeth. I look at the bed to see the leaky sippy turned upside down draining into the valley where my body once lay sleeping soundly... but briefly, as it is now only 7:30.
I grab the sippy and put it on the night stand while noticing that everyone else is asleep, even the cat at the foot of the bed. I definitely do NOT want to wake them now with a sheet change. Tiptoeing to the bathroom, I peel off my Pj's, clean my sticky side with a baby wipe, and grab a towel. I pull the first t-shirt my hand finds out of the dresser and pull it on, pretty sure it's backwards and inside out. Placing the towel over the puddle, I crawl back into bed.
Morning comes at 8:30 with little R's kisses planted all over my face. Just as I was starting to sleepily smile and try to open my eyes, she slaps me in the face and then promptly kisses it again. I don't even have time to react. I hear more kisses but they are not for me. This time they are for brother R who giggles with delight at the affection. He crawls over to me and covers me with kisses as well. What a way to wake!
Big Daddy R is still snoring.
The morning birds start bouncing all over me in the bed until I agree to get up and get them some breakfast and sippies of milk. I manage to stand and realize the puddle soaked through the towel and onto my t-shirt which is indeed inside out and backwards. I don't mind.
The positive energy in the room is contagious. Although I barely got any R & R, I am in a good mood. How could you not be when covered with kisses?
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