Edgy Mama

Dear Kids,

You are so damn cute. I love you. And, it’s time for us to have a little talk about sleep. Sleep is essential for life, and more importantly, for Mommy’s sanity.

Mommy’s child development book says children under the age of seven sleep ten to twelve hours each night. But you–you both have been non-conformists since birth. Who knew that, after your incredibly disorienting and sleep-depriving infant years, you would continue to wake up–calling for water, milk, Mommy, the bathroom, teddy bears, etc.–at regular intervals, throughout the night?

Last night was a great example of your competence in the arena of non-sleeping (perhaps by 2016 there will be college scholarships available for those so gifted). Just for fun, let’s rehash!

C wakes up at 11:30 (approximately ½ hour after Mommy drifts into La-La Land). After 20 minutes of screaming, C is allowed into Mommy and Daddy’s bed, where he kicks and cries until Daddy leaves to get into C’s trundle bed, leaving more room for C, Mommy, and the two cats. Although Daddy has to sleep curled into a small ball, he earns six straight hours of sleep. Smart Daddy!

At 1:30, A runs into Mommy and Daddy’s room, after using the potty (good girl). A is so excited about the marble celebration planned for the next day in Kindergarten that she can’t get back to sleep (Kindergarten is a wonderful place, because, not only do you get to celebrate the obvious—birthdays, holidays, loosing teeth–but you get to honor marbles as well). Mommy, desperate not to reawaken C, hustles A back into her own bedroom where a 15-minute conversation ensues about how difficult it is to go back to sleep. Finally, Mommy threatens various creative punishments if A does not shut up and go back to sleep (none of which Mommy will follow through on—as A knows).

Mommy gingerly gets back into her bed. C cries out and rolls over onto Mommy’s arm. Mommy freezes. C doesn’t wake up. Mommy goes back to sleep with a 35-pound toddler on her left arm and shoulder. One of the cats, Houdini, takes advantage of Mommy’s immobility and settles himself on her right shoulder.

At 3:30, C reawakens as his overnight diaper has leaked and his pajamas, Mommy’s pajamas, and the bed are soaked with pee. Mommy strips off everyone’s pajamas, puts a new diaper on C, and lays towels down over the wet sheets.

C then begins shrieking for milk. As Mommy does not want him to reawaken A, she runs downstairs (naked–hoping none of the neighbors are taking an early constitutional) and fills a sippy cup with milk. C drinks the milk, then insists on sleeping pressed against Mommy’s back. Mommy stares at the clock for an hour as C snores in her ear.

At 6:00 a.m., A runs into the room and says, “Mommy, it’s six o’clock, can I get up now?” “Hush, don’t wake up your brother. Go downstairs and play,” hisses Mommy. At 6:30, A reenters the room. “Mommy, I’m bored,” she says. C wakes up.

As Mommy trudges downstairs to fix breakfast, she considers throwing the child development book through the window. She wonders if anyone would notify Social Services if she forced her children to sleep in a tent in the backyard.

Gosh, kids, isn’t it amazing that Mommy can remember the events of the night in such detail, but can’t remember either the day of the week or your names? When Mommy forgets to pack any actual food in your lunchboxes, remember that she still loves you–she just hasn’t slept through the night in six years. And A, if you ever again forget to turn on the coffee maker in the morning, I WILL write those letters to Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny. Love, Mommy

What is it with the title housewife? Although it does feel like it sometimes, I did not chose a marry a house. Our accountant insists on putting “housewife” under “Occupation” next to MY name. I’m a writer, damn it (okay, I haven’t made a cent off of writing in the past year and have just lost our educational deductions because of this pitiful lack of revenue). I used the term domestic engineer earlier in this blog, but that sounds pretentious. I couldn’t engineer myself out of a paper bag. My husband has a degree in engineering, and my kitchen sink has been leaking for over a year (he does abstract engineering, not “I can use a wrench” engineering). So, what term should we use for those of us who work 16 hours a day cleaning up messes, doing laundry, playing with kids, and trying to write a novel simultaneously?

I happily turned 40 last spring. I am now old enough and wise enough that no one can mess with me. However, (you knew this was coming)recently I had to see a medical specialist as a vein on the back of one leg had protruded and was aching when I exercised. The solution to the pain is for me to wear oh-so-attractive medical support hose while working out. To make matters worse, in the mail today I recieved a catalogue that I had never seen before. Flipping through it, I noticed advertisements for such items as: Prune Wafers, Easy-Up Lifter Seat, Super Kegeler, and the ultimate Cane Caddy. Oh my gosh! One set of support hose later. WHAT FUN!

Once again I’m sitting at the coffee shop indulging in blogging and reading blogs (is there a word for that yet?) instead of writing. As no one seems to be reading my blog yet, it’s all seems rather irrevelant. Thus, the fanfaronade.

I had heard of blogs but never read one until about a month ago. One of my lifelong friends asked me to read her incredibly captivating blog. She is undergoing a courageous transformation–changing gender (M to F). Needless to say, she has a great deal to write about. Supporting her and her soon-to-be ex and their kids has raised my compassion index considerably. It also has introduced me to a world that I barely knew existed. Witnessing another person’s journey is what friendship is all about. And T. is on one hell of a journey.

Happy Birthday, Rabbie Burns. Lang may yer lum reek.

I’m 40,000 words into my novel, but for the past week, I’ve been unable to write a single new sentence. Instead, I find myself continuously drawn to Chapter 1, which I have re-edited no less than 20 times. Move on, sister. I think I’m a bit stuck and, subconciously, feel that if the first chapter is really compelling, no one will notice that I got lost halfway through the book. HELP!

The reason I have been unable to post is, as the nice blogger.com help guy says, “You’re using a fairly old version of Internet Explorer.” No joke. I’m probably one of the few writers in America who still uses Microsoft Word, version 97! When my spouse gets a new, work-financed, state-of-the-art, up-to-the-second laptop, he bequeaths his old one to me, which happened about a year ago. However, the software was not transferable, so I’m stuck in the technological dark ages.

Not that I’m complaining too much. Inheriting this laptop has changed my life. Since being blessed with children, I’ve had difficulty concentrating on writing at home. I don’t even attempt it when my kids are in the vicinity, but even when they are at school, I am distracted by the myriad mom/domestic engineer tasks piling up as I follow my bliss. Having a laptop enables me to pop down to the local coffee shop, where the only distractions are the intriguing, creative people working here on their laptops (it’s become quite the community—more on coffee shop computer culture another day). Having a portable computer also gives me the advantage of being able to write when the kids are at home (the occasional evening with Dad, afternoon with Grandpa, or when, Mommy is desperate, a babysitter).

When my next novel sells (notice I said when, not if), I will buy myself a state-of-the-art laptop with up-to-the-second software (after I have a celebratory bottle or two of beer).