I keep falling asleep.
My kids left the house today for their weekend with their dad. Five minutes later, zzzzz on the sofa.
Last night, I put everyone to bed, took a minute to sit down and do a quick email check. Next thing I knew it was midnight and all I wanted to do was go back to bed.
I'm awake for important stuff. Meetings. Driving. Playtime with the kids. But give me a quiet moment, and the last five years of sleeplessness hit me over the head with a big rubber mallet and knock me cold for a good two hours.
This is what life off caffeine will do for a girl.
You'd think I'd mind, but I don't. Not even a little bit. This is a relief. A huge, giant relief. Because somewhere deep in my soul I'd started to believe I'd never sleep again. Never. Which is a scary thing, worse that the worst serial killer nightmare, and since I've had a fair number of those you're-being-chased-through-a-department-store-by-a-bad-guy-who-will-encase-you-in-ice-and-pour-acid-on-you kind of dreams, you can trust me. That's scary.
Of course, I haven't dreamed at all in years. When you don't sleep, you don't have those flashes of dream memory, those moments where you can feel yourself flying through the city streets touching the trees as you go by, or watching a sunset over the Gulf of Mexico and the ocean reflecting colors more vivid and striking than any you'd see outside your own mind.
Who knows, I might even start dreaming again. How awesome would that be?
Assuming, of course, that the serial killers keep to themselves.
Showing posts with label sleep. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sleep. Show all posts
May 27, 2011
May 24, 2011
The Big Get Healthy
A few days ago, I made reference to The Big Get Healthy. I debated sharing anything else about it. I mean, my success on these types of things is spotty at best.
But I'm having fun, and that bears repeating. Publicly, even.
This whole thing started, though, with some serious unfun. Just over a week ago I stepped on the scale - which I do sometimes - and realized I'd just crossed the teeny tiny line between reasonably plump and not so reasonably anything. Between that and the regular sleeplessness and the lack of movement and the amped up stress ... well, I'm on a fast track to heart disease or diabetes or something equally uplifting. And, in that sense, I'm also setting an unhealthy example for the three little people I'm raising.
So I did something about it. I got in touch with a woman I met when I was a ripe old 17-year-old. She's a health coach. She's awesome.
Just over a week later, I'm on a healthful, well-supported, medically researched diet that is having an impact. And, like I said, I'm having fun. I'm having fun because, while most of the day is heavily proscribed and well mapped out, relatively dull, and totally practical, once a day I get to be all creative and play with a meal in a way that's healthy and good.
For the record, the healthy and good part is just as fun as the creative part.
Sunday night, I had a shrimp salad. Shrimp sauteed in a teeny tiny bit of olive oil, with a clove of garlic, a bit of chopped parsley, 1/4 cup of mushrooms and the juice of half a lemon, served over a bed of greens with 3/4 cup (combined) of tomatoes, cucumbers and green onions, with light balsamic vinaigrette sprinkled over top.
Monday, it was tilapia marinated in a little fresh lemon juice and baked till flaky. I blended up a quick tapenade from 8 gorgeous, fresh green olives with a little parsley and a little more fresh lemon juice and a clove of garlic and some pepper, with 1/2 cup diced tomatoes thrown in at the end, I spread all that over the fish, then stuck it back into the oven. Great olivey goodness, with a cup of steamed broccoli on the side.
And tonight? Hard-boiled eggs - 3 of them - with a cup of steamed green beans, 1/2 cup of tomatoes and diced red peppers, a sprinkle of chopped fresh chives, pepper and 2 tablespoons of red vinegar.
See? Healthy. And yummy enough that Veggie Girl begged me - yes begged me - to make an egg salad for her.
The egg salad's the only one I thought to take a picture of. But if I come up with anything else interesting, I'll let you know!
It's been a week, give or take. That's it. And I realize this is just the beginning of a very long - a lifelong - journey that will keep me well and healthy and give my kids a mom they can emulate and be proud of.
Just a week.
But I'll take it. And you know why? It's not the life lessons I'm learning. Or the 7 lbs I've lost already.
I'm sleepy.
For the first time in years, I'm sleepy. When I'm supposed to be.
Which means it's time for bed. Good night, y'all.
But I'm having fun, and that bears repeating. Publicly, even.
This whole thing started, though, with some serious unfun. Just over a week ago I stepped on the scale - which I do sometimes - and realized I'd just crossed the teeny tiny line between reasonably plump and not so reasonably anything. Between that and the regular sleeplessness and the lack of movement and the amped up stress ... well, I'm on a fast track to heart disease or diabetes or something equally uplifting. And, in that sense, I'm also setting an unhealthy example for the three little people I'm raising.
So I did something about it. I got in touch with a woman I met when I was a ripe old 17-year-old. She's a health coach. She's awesome.
Just over a week later, I'm on a healthful, well-supported, medically researched diet that is having an impact. And, like I said, I'm having fun. I'm having fun because, while most of the day is heavily proscribed and well mapped out, relatively dull, and totally practical, once a day I get to be all creative and play with a meal in a way that's healthy and good.
For the record, the healthy and good part is just as fun as the creative part.
Sunday night, I had a shrimp salad. Shrimp sauteed in a teeny tiny bit of olive oil, with a clove of garlic, a bit of chopped parsley, 1/4 cup of mushrooms and the juice of half a lemon, served over a bed of greens with 3/4 cup (combined) of tomatoes, cucumbers and green onions, with light balsamic vinaigrette sprinkled over top.
Monday, it was tilapia marinated in a little fresh lemon juice and baked till flaky. I blended up a quick tapenade from 8 gorgeous, fresh green olives with a little parsley and a little more fresh lemon juice and a clove of garlic and some pepper, with 1/2 cup diced tomatoes thrown in at the end, I spread all that over the fish, then stuck it back into the oven. Great olivey goodness, with a cup of steamed broccoli on the side.
And tonight? Hard-boiled eggs - 3 of them - with a cup of steamed green beans, 1/2 cup of tomatoes and diced red peppers, a sprinkle of chopped fresh chives, pepper and 2 tablespoons of red vinegar.See? Healthy. And yummy enough that Veggie Girl begged me - yes begged me - to make an egg salad for her.
The egg salad's the only one I thought to take a picture of. But if I come up with anything else interesting, I'll let you know!
It's been a week, give or take. That's it. And I realize this is just the beginning of a very long - a lifelong - journey that will keep me well and healthy and give my kids a mom they can emulate and be proud of.
Just a week.
But I'll take it. And you know why? It's not the life lessons I'm learning. Or the 7 lbs I've lost already.
I'm sleepy.
For the first time in years, I'm sleepy. When I'm supposed to be.
Which means it's time for bed. Good night, y'all.
January 2, 2011
Sleeping into the Sunset
It's been 16 days since my last blog post.
You know what I've been doing? Aside from working, raising three kids, managing Christmas and New Year's, and - oh yeah - dealing with a resurgence of head lice (which, fortunately, struck over the holidays when the risk of contagion was low and the time available to nitpick was high).
I just distracted myself. Wait, what was I doing? Oh, right!
I've been sleeping. S-L-E-E-P-I-N-G. Which deserves every capital letter I can find.
I meant to be on vacation, so the sleeping thing would have maybe made sense. Except for, you know, the raging insomnia. But that vacation didn't work out quite as I planned, and I wound up working. I did my work the easy way, though. Started late. Kept it to the daytime. Didn't bring out the computer at night. And you know what happened? I got tired. I got tired, so I got up off my sofa and I went to bed. I made myself horizontal by midnight every single night. Well, except Christmas Eve. But that's only because I was tracking Santa with NORAD and couldn't go to sleep until he was finished.
I'm well rested. Which means I'm not blogging. And I hope it doesn't offend you if I hope for more of the same in 2011. I'd call it a New Year's resolution, but I'm not so good with those.
Since I'm awake now, though, I proudly present my 2010 Done List.
In the past year, I have ...
You know what I've been doing? Aside from working, raising three kids, managing Christmas and New Year's, and - oh yeah - dealing with a resurgence of head lice (which, fortunately, struck over the holidays when the risk of contagion was low and the time available to nitpick was high).
I just distracted myself. Wait, what was I doing? Oh, right!
I've been sleeping. S-L-E-E-P-I-N-G. Which deserves every capital letter I can find.
I meant to be on vacation, so the sleeping thing would have maybe made sense. Except for, you know, the raging insomnia. But that vacation didn't work out quite as I planned, and I wound up working. I did my work the easy way, though. Started late. Kept it to the daytime. Didn't bring out the computer at night. And you know what happened? I got tired. I got tired, so I got up off my sofa and I went to bed. I made myself horizontal by midnight every single night. Well, except Christmas Eve. But that's only because I was tracking Santa with NORAD and couldn't go to sleep until he was finished.
I'm well rested. Which means I'm not blogging. And I hope it doesn't offend you if I hope for more of the same in 2011. I'd call it a New Year's resolution, but I'm not so good with those.
Since I'm awake now, though, I proudly present my 2010 Done List.
In the past year, I have ...
- Said good-bye to a beloved friend - our dog, Moose, who passed away in January. We still miss her.
- Survived the 80+ inches of snow dumped on our area last winter. With help.
- Got my kids eating real food, at a real table, with real manners. They put their napkins in their laps and only talk with their mouths full when they have something really important to say.
- Saw my diva into - and then back out of - vegetarianism. Along the way, she learned there's not a veggie grown that she does not love. Even better - she dragged her brothers kicking and screaming into the veggie madness with her. Now I can serve broccoli, cauliflower, green beans, brussels sprouts, peas, corn, cucumbers or carrots ... and everyone eats them. Last week, I introduced sauteed spinach and lima beans - on different nights, of course - and got nothing but yums from the peanut gallery. Hats off to Veggie Girl, because I'm pretty sure none of that would have happened without her.
- Fixed my plumbing. And my car. And my lights. And my computer. And my microwave. I got jiggy with the home repairs.
- Made new friends - a few who actually live near me (yay!), and one who lives with me. I've had lots of great au pairs, but only a few have become true friends - and the one who's living with me now is among the best of them.
- Hired a boy. That's right - our next au pair is a fella! And he's got the URL to my blog, so if he's reading this - we're pleased as punch that you're coming, and the kids can't wait to make you play soccer with them. Every. Single. Day.
- Got my oldest into the Right School, with the Right People. Which means he's now attending a school where every single person on staff understands Asperger's Syndrome and not only accepts my son but loves him for exactly who he is. So far he's brought home straight A's and a girlfriend and a few best friends who call him just to chat and sometimes to invite him to the movies. His joy at getting on the school bus every day is palpable. (And, a nod here to the local middle school, because they did everything they could to support him and make sure he got where he needed to go.)
- Left my heart in San Francisco. And brought some yummy chocolate home.
- Saw my redhead off to Kindergarten. And only cried a little. And now he's reading. Kindergarten is magic.
- Knit stuff. This year I finished - yes, I said finished - my knitting Olympics project and a handbag, plus the three hats and a scarf I just gave as Christmas gifts. And I finished those last four on time. Barely. But it counts.
- Picked hundreds of nits from the heads of various of my children. And thanked my au pair for doing the same, for them and for me. (Ew.)
- Wrote another 57 blog posts. Which seems to be about all I'm good for in any given year, seeing as that's the exact number I wrote in 2009, too.
August 17, 2010
Woody Monkey
Once upon a time, there was a little boy with sparkling blue eyes and festive red hair. He was smart and funny and generally easygoing. But he didn't much like sleeping.
His mommy liked sleeping. She liked it a lot. But if he was up, she was up, too. By the time of our story, she'd been awake for nearly five years. She loved him. Dearly. But most of the time, she couldn't remember his name.
One night, when his mommy was away for the evening and a friend stayed over to take care of him, a minor miracle happened. The redhead slept. In his own bed. All night long. And all by himself.
Then he promised his mommy he'd do it again. All he wanted was a Build-A-Bear.
Before he even finished that thought, his mommy shouted "DEAL!" She went clickety-clack on the computer and churned out a fully-illustrated, 30-day chart, with pictures of Build-A-Bears dancing in the margins.
He had a good night, and he got a circle for his chart. Then he had a few bad nights. Then another good one, and another circle. The first few days were slow going. But he made it to 7, then 10, then 12. Before he knew it, he had 20 big round circles on his chart. And, seeing that he had only 10 nights left, he bit the bullet and slept on his own, in his own bed, straight through until he was done.
The day before his fifth birthday, this beautiful, sparkling boy earned circle number 30, with 30 nights of fully independent, uninterrupted, I'm-a-big-kid-now sleep.
And now the boy has a new best friend. His name is Woody Monkey. Apparently Build-A-Bear makes monkeys, too, and they let you dress them up in very cool outfits, some of which look astonishingly like those worn by the lead characters in your average five-year-old's favorite film.
I am happy to report that my great, big, heading-off-to-Kindergartner has slept in his own bed every night since his birthday. We're going on two weeks now.
So, if I promise myself a Build-a-Bear, do you think I'll start sleeping, too?
His mommy liked sleeping. She liked it a lot. But if he was up, she was up, too. By the time of our story, she'd been awake for nearly five years. She loved him. Dearly. But most of the time, she couldn't remember his name.
One night, when his mommy was away for the evening and a friend stayed over to take care of him, a minor miracle happened. The redhead slept. In his own bed. All night long. And all by himself.
Then he promised his mommy he'd do it again. All he wanted was a Build-A-Bear.
Before he even finished that thought, his mommy shouted "DEAL!" She went clickety-clack on the computer and churned out a fully-illustrated, 30-day chart, with pictures of Build-A-Bears dancing in the margins.
He had a good night, and he got a circle for his chart. Then he had a few bad nights. Then another good one, and another circle. The first few days were slow going. But he made it to 7, then 10, then 12. Before he knew it, he had 20 big round circles on his chart. And, seeing that he had only 10 nights left, he bit the bullet and slept on his own, in his own bed, straight through until he was done.
The day before his fifth birthday, this beautiful, sparkling boy earned circle number 30, with 30 nights of fully independent, uninterrupted, I'm-a-big-kid-now sleep.
And now the boy has a new best friend. His name is Woody Monkey. Apparently Build-A-Bear makes monkeys, too, and they let you dress them up in very cool outfits, some of which look astonishingly like those worn by the lead characters in your average five-year-old's favorite film.
I am happy to report that my great, big, heading-off-to-Kindergartner has slept in his own bed every night since his birthday. We're going on two weeks now.
So, if I promise myself a Build-a-Bear, do you think I'll start sleeping, too?
June 30, 2010
Wait, Is It Really July? Well, Almost ...
I came here today intending to blog about frittatas. That's right. Frittatas, and all their eggy goodness.
This post, sadly, is not about frittatas.
On the way to my blog, I got distracted by my friend the Diva. She posted her mid-year resolutions.
I like that idea. See, I did do the New Year's resolution thing. I kept them simple. And I did not make them public, because my resolution track record pretty much sucks.
For reference, here they are: my 2010 New Year's Resolutions, nearly seven months late.
So I like the idea of a whole new set of resolutions, a set of mid-year, hey-what-the-heck-is-it-really-July resolutions, that I might possibly be able to accomplish.
Here they are.
This post, sadly, is not about frittatas.
On the way to my blog, I got distracted by my friend the Diva. She posted her mid-year resolutions.
I like that idea. See, I did do the New Year's resolution thing. I kept them simple. And I did not make them public, because my resolution track record pretty much sucks.
For reference, here they are: my 2010 New Year's Resolutions, nearly seven months late.
- Read
- Sleep
- Move
So I like the idea of a whole new set of resolutions, a set of mid-year, hey-what-the-heck-is-it-really-July resolutions, that I might possibly be able to accomplish.
Here they are.
- Finish the half gallon of Breyer's rocky road ice cream currently melting in my lap. Very doable, particularly as a half gallon container now holds a mere 1.5 quarts. (When exactly did that happen?)
- Learn to say "yes." Ironic, since I spent my year plus in limbo learning how to say "no." Now I'm really good at no and realizing that I need a few more yesses in my life. I'm not talking about "Yes, I'll manage the whole soccer league," or "Yes, I'll make 84 cupcakes for tomorrow's bake sale." I'm talking about "Yes, sweetie, I'd love to play Polly Pockets with you," and "Of course you can have a hug," and "Sure I can read Wacky Wednesday 18 more times today." These are important yesses.
- Find a sugar daddy who wants to buy me a brand new and completely bug-free house and send all three of my super-smart kids to college. (But only if I can keep dating my San Francisco-bound sweetie.)
- Set a new family record by blowing up six - yes, I said six - bottles of Diet Coke with Mentos. This is hands-down my kids' favorite activity of the summer. Yeah, I know, six isn't really that many - particularly when compared with this YouTube classic - but since the kids usually get just the one bottle apiece, six is a big, big deal.
- Write that frittata post. I even took pictures folks. Yes, pictures.
June 20, 2010
It's All Fun & Games Until Someone Falls Asleep
Every so often, my kids and I engage in a game they call "Mommy Monster." I lie on the sofa in wait until some unsuspecting child walks by, and then I reach out and grab them and tickle them mercilessly until all three kids jump on me in a giggly, squealing, squirmy mass.
Today, I wound up underneath just such a pile of happily loud and wiggly kids.
And I fell asleep.
I woke up the instant one of the kids jumped off me and set off all those internal mommy alarms that blare when a child of mine is not readily present and accounted for.
But I'm still annoyed. They had all that fun without me.
Damn but I'm tired.
Stupid insomnia. I hate you.
P.S. I know I've got a pronoun/antecedent agreement issue in the first paragraph, but I'm too tired to figure out how to fix it.
Today, I wound up underneath just such a pile of happily loud and wiggly kids.
And I fell asleep.
I woke up the instant one of the kids jumped off me and set off all those internal mommy alarms that blare when a child of mine is not readily present and accounted for.
But I'm still annoyed. They had all that fun without me.
Damn but I'm tired.
Stupid insomnia. I hate you.
P.S. I know I've got a pronoun/antecedent agreement issue in the first paragraph, but I'm too tired to figure out how to fix it.
May 23, 2010
Small Miracles
Apparently, the Earth's orbit has shifted. The planets aligned. Hell froze over.
My redhead slept through the night. Again.
This is huge. HUGE. Because it's never ever happened before.
And even better, he wants it to happen again. Seriously. He said so himself. I was putting him to bed, and he said, "Mom, you can sleep with me one more time, and then I'm going to do it by myself so you can get me a Build-A-Bear."
That "sleeping with me" stuff means two things. It means at night, when he's falling asleep, because he likes to have me nearby. Not always right next to him, but always nearby. And given the turmoil of the divorce, I haven't pushed it. I've stayed. Because divorced kids need to know they are loved, they are safe, and their grown-ups will be there. No matter what.
And the other thing it means is his 4 a.m. wanderings into my room, when I'm so totally zonked out nothing short of a screaming smoke detector could wake me. He climbs into my bed, glues himself to my side, and sleeps the rest of his night.
Now he's going to do it by himself. Falling asleep. Staying asleep. All on his own.
And all it's going to cost me is a Build-A-Bear.
I'm in. I am so in. Because, after nearly five years of non-stop sleep deprivation, I'd give anything. Anything. A year's supply of M&Ms, every Lego kit ever made, a ride on the space shuttle.
Thirty days of solid sleep, and that kid is going shopping.
I'm lucky all he wants is a bear.
My redhead slept through the night. Again.
This is huge. HUGE. Because it's never ever happened before.
And even better, he wants it to happen again. Seriously. He said so himself. I was putting him to bed, and he said, "Mom, you can sleep with me one more time, and then I'm going to do it by myself so you can get me a Build-A-Bear."
That "sleeping with me" stuff means two things. It means at night, when he's falling asleep, because he likes to have me nearby. Not always right next to him, but always nearby. And given the turmoil of the divorce, I haven't pushed it. I've stayed. Because divorced kids need to know they are loved, they are safe, and their grown-ups will be there. No matter what.
And the other thing it means is his 4 a.m. wanderings into my room, when I'm so totally zonked out nothing short of a screaming smoke detector could wake me. He climbs into my bed, glues himself to my side, and sleeps the rest of his night.
Now he's going to do it by himself. Falling asleep. Staying asleep. All on his own.
And all it's going to cost me is a Build-A-Bear.
I'm in. I am so in. Because, after nearly five years of non-stop sleep deprivation, I'd give anything. Anything. A year's supply of M&Ms, every Lego kit ever made, a ride on the space shuttle.
Thirty days of solid sleep, and that kid is going shopping.
I'm lucky all he wants is a bear.
May 22, 2010
Sleeping Through
Last night, my closing-on-five-year-old slept through the night for the first time in his whole entire life.
I wish I were kidding about that. But I'm not. As a newborn, this kid was ginormous and growing faster than anyone should at that age. He simply could not get through the night without nursing. Then he got older, and apparently he stayed hungry. Or thirsty. Or he had night terrors. Or the wind blew. And he woke up. He woke up, and he came looking for me.
This puzzles me. I've raised two kids who have been champion sleepers practically since birth. In their own beds and everything.
Not this guy.
Eventually, after a year or two of disrupted sleep, I simply gave up. I stopped sleeping and started waiting for him to come find me. See, if he caught me sleeping, I'd wind up with an overnight companion who believes that sleep happens best when he is glued to my side and holding firmly to my belly button. And that's just weird. So I stayed awake in order to put him back in his own bed and keep him out of mine.
Now he waits me out. He's figured out that I get so little sleep I'll eventually crash like a meteorite, and if he waits until 4 or 5 a.m., he'll win. Thanks to the sleeplessness that is single motherhood, he wins every single night.
Only last night, he didn't. Last night, he slept. In his own bed. All night long.
That's because last night, I wasn't at home. Last night, a really truly wonderful and amazing friend stayed at my house with my kids. My redhead knew I wouldn't be there when he came looking for me. So he didn't come.
Tonight I asked him why. I was tucking him in, and I said, "Hey, I'm really proud of you for staying in your bed all night last night. I'll bet you can do that again tonight."
"No. I can't."
"Why not?"
Which is when he looks up at me with these great, big, lost puppy dog eyes and says, "Because I love you, mom."
Well, crap. I couldn't argue with that one if I tried.
I wish I were kidding about that. But I'm not. As a newborn, this kid was ginormous and growing faster than anyone should at that age. He simply could not get through the night without nursing. Then he got older, and apparently he stayed hungry. Or thirsty. Or he had night terrors. Or the wind blew. And he woke up. He woke up, and he came looking for me.
This puzzles me. I've raised two kids who have been champion sleepers practically since birth. In their own beds and everything.
Not this guy.
Eventually, after a year or two of disrupted sleep, I simply gave up. I stopped sleeping and started waiting for him to come find me. See, if he caught me sleeping, I'd wind up with an overnight companion who believes that sleep happens best when he is glued to my side and holding firmly to my belly button. And that's just weird. So I stayed awake in order to put him back in his own bed and keep him out of mine.
Now he waits me out. He's figured out that I get so little sleep I'll eventually crash like a meteorite, and if he waits until 4 or 5 a.m., he'll win. Thanks to the sleeplessness that is single motherhood, he wins every single night.
Only last night, he didn't. Last night, he slept. In his own bed. All night long.
That's because last night, I wasn't at home. Last night, a really truly wonderful and amazing friend stayed at my house with my kids. My redhead knew I wouldn't be there when he came looking for me. So he didn't come.
Tonight I asked him why. I was tucking him in, and I said, "Hey, I'm really proud of you for staying in your bed all night last night. I'll bet you can do that again tonight."
"No. I can't."
"Why not?"
Which is when he looks up at me with these great, big, lost puppy dog eyes and says, "Because I love you, mom."
Well, crap. I couldn't argue with that one if I tried.
December 30, 2009
469
Word came today. On Monday, December 28, our final judgment became official - with the right names this time.
Which means that after 469 days ...
67 weeks ...
11,256 hours ...
675,360 minutes ...
40,521,600 seconds ...
I'm not in limbo anymore.
Good news. Good, destressing, forward-moving, happy-making news.
Happy New Year. I think I'll sleep now.
Which means that after 469 days ...
67 weeks ...
11,256 hours ...
675,360 minutes ...
40,521,600 seconds ...
I'm not in limbo anymore.
Good news. Good, destressing, forward-moving, happy-making news.
Happy New Year. I think I'll sleep now.
December 20, 2009
Snowed In
I've got insomnia. Or, as my sister calls it, can'tgotobednia. She's noted - quite accurately - that real insomnia means you lie awake all night. That's not my problem. I'd sleep, if I went to bed. I just don't go to bed.
This weekend, I found a cure.
It was a Not My Weekend (as in, the nearly ex has the kids and I have a bit of me time). And it started poorly, with my redhead screaming in terror about having to go to dad's house. Apparently the zombies who can't drive live at dad's house. So he was dragged out to the car clutching his blankie and screaming blue murder.
Cue big ole stressed out mushy mom tears. And a stressed out mom, for the record, is a mom who can't sleep.
But I had plans to meet an old friend for a festive holiday dinner. So I ignored the stress, put on my new favorite dress (it's amazing what a good dress can do for a girl's mood) and headed out - to a whole other state, in fact - to meet my friend at The Best Restaurant Ever.
We walked in for an amazingly good meal of coq au vin, with cocoa in the vin (which sounds a bit scary but it's really rich and spectacular), polished off with decadent coconut cake.
We walked out into the start of "snopocalypse." The Great Blizzard of 2009. Snow everywhere. Slippy, slidy, really not drivable snow.
My friend graciously offered me a place to stay. I accepted.
And I slept. Soundly. All night long.
Woke up at 9:30. Looked at the 8 inches of snow on the ground. Went back sleep.
Woke up at 1:00. Looked at the 12 inches of snow on the ground. Made pancakes. Sat down to watch the Tar Heels. Fell asleep before they lost.
Woke up for dinner. My friend lives mere blocks from an Irish pub that believes a blizzard is a silly reason to shut its doors. So we braved the elements and about 2 feet of snow for beef stew and Black and Tans, then headed back to watch The Best Star Wars Movie Ever.
I fell asleep right after Yoda lifted Luke's X-wing out of the swamp on Dagobah and woke up just in time for the credits.
My friend asked me if I'd have trouble sleeping that night after sleeping all day.
Nope. Slept like a rock.
I woke up, at last, at 10:30 this morning.
Blizzards are stress. It took us nearly 3 hours of heavy lifting to dig out. On the long drive home, I saw more than 10 cars spun into snow drifts and each other. My own town - boonie burg that it is - hasn't yet been plowed. At all. Schools in our area are closed tomorrow, two full days after the snowfall.
But I'm relaxed. I'm happy. Because I slept. I slept and slept and slept.
Apparently, snow cures can'tgotobednia.
Is it wrong to hope for a blizzard every day?
PS: Today marks day 461 in limbo ... and counting
This weekend, I found a cure.
It was a Not My Weekend (as in, the nearly ex has the kids and I have a bit of me time). And it started poorly, with my redhead screaming in terror about having to go to dad's house. Apparently the zombies who can't drive live at dad's house. So he was dragged out to the car clutching his blankie and screaming blue murder.
Cue big ole stressed out mushy mom tears. And a stressed out mom, for the record, is a mom who can't sleep.
But I had plans to meet an old friend for a festive holiday dinner. So I ignored the stress, put on my new favorite dress (it's amazing what a good dress can do for a girl's mood) and headed out - to a whole other state, in fact - to meet my friend at The Best Restaurant Ever.
We walked in for an amazingly good meal of coq au vin, with cocoa in the vin (which sounds a bit scary but it's really rich and spectacular), polished off with decadent coconut cake.
We walked out into the start of "snopocalypse." The Great Blizzard of 2009. Snow everywhere. Slippy, slidy, really not drivable snow.
My friend graciously offered me a place to stay. I accepted.
And I slept. Soundly. All night long.
Woke up at 9:30. Looked at the 8 inches of snow on the ground. Went back sleep.
Woke up at 1:00. Looked at the 12 inches of snow on the ground. Made pancakes. Sat down to watch the Tar Heels. Fell asleep before they lost.
Woke up for dinner. My friend lives mere blocks from an Irish pub that believes a blizzard is a silly reason to shut its doors. So we braved the elements and about 2 feet of snow for beef stew and Black and Tans, then headed back to watch The Best Star Wars Movie Ever.
I fell asleep right after Yoda lifted Luke's X-wing out of the swamp on Dagobah and woke up just in time for the credits.
My friend asked me if I'd have trouble sleeping that night after sleeping all day.
Nope. Slept like a rock.
I woke up, at last, at 10:30 this morning.
Blizzards are stress. It took us nearly 3 hours of heavy lifting to dig out. On the long drive home, I saw more than 10 cars spun into snow drifts and each other. My own town - boonie burg that it is - hasn't yet been plowed. At all. Schools in our area are closed tomorrow, two full days after the snowfall.
But I'm relaxed. I'm happy. Because I slept. I slept and slept and slept.
Apparently, snow cures can'tgotobednia.
Is it wrong to hope for a blizzard every day?
PS: Today marks day 461 in limbo ... and counting
November 24, 2009
Due North
When I was in college, I took a philosophy course on ethics. Upshot of a semester's worth of learning: There really are no moral absolutes.
I mean, think about it. Even killing - something folks generally agree is bad - is sometimes okay. If you're defending yourself. Or your family. Or your country. But where one draws the line of okayness varies.
That kind of moral ambiguity killed my weekend.
It also probably killed my marriage. Because what I realized this weekend is that the very-very-nearly-ex and I, our moral code is totally, totally different.
Doesn't mean his is bad and mine is good. It just means they're different.
And, of course, I like mine better.
I realized all this while digesting various bits of disturbing information that floated my way last week. And I realized that, because I am who I am, in the end those bits of information didn't matter. I follow my moral compass. I pay attention to what it says and I act accordingly. And I hope, fervently, that this is what everyone does. Because it's this process that puts the demons to rest and lets you sleep at night. (Well, for most people, anyway. I'm still battling insomnia demons that have nothing to do with moral certitude).
Thing is, when you meet a guy, and you think you like him, and you start talking rings and churches and how many kids you want to have, you kind of assume your compasses both point north.
They don't always.
Guess it's another lesson learned. Ask for directions. And make sure everyone's heading north before you get in the car.
I mean, think about it. Even killing - something folks generally agree is bad - is sometimes okay. If you're defending yourself. Or your family. Or your country. But where one draws the line of okayness varies.
That kind of moral ambiguity killed my weekend.
It also probably killed my marriage. Because what I realized this weekend is that the very-very-nearly-ex and I, our moral code is totally, totally different.
Doesn't mean his is bad and mine is good. It just means they're different.
And, of course, I like mine better.
I realized all this while digesting various bits of disturbing information that floated my way last week. And I realized that, because I am who I am, in the end those bits of information didn't matter. I follow my moral compass. I pay attention to what it says and I act accordingly. And I hope, fervently, that this is what everyone does. Because it's this process that puts the demons to rest and lets you sleep at night. (Well, for most people, anyway. I'm still battling insomnia demons that have nothing to do with moral certitude).
Thing is, when you meet a guy, and you think you like him, and you start talking rings and churches and how many kids you want to have, you kind of assume your compasses both point north.
They don't always.
Guess it's another lesson learned. Ask for directions. And make sure everyone's heading north before you get in the car.
October 4, 2009
Lots and Lots of Soccer
Today I spent eight and a half hours - yes, you read that right - playing, watching and thinking about soccer.
My little guy kicked us off (ha ha) at 8:30. He's a goofball on the field, but he takes the game very seriously. Which is only just a little odd in a four-year-old.
Then it was my diva's turn. Last year, she was a cheerleader and very, very girly. But in her recent I-want-to-be-a-tomboy phase, it suited her to try soccer instead. She's jumped in with both feet (ha ha ... yes, folks, it's Bad Pun Day here in the Elbow-verse).
We had a short break, some hot dogs for lunch, a quick turn on the Wii, then dashed off to my Aspie's game. He finished at 5:00. Nearly dinner time, and yet not one of my kids was hungry.
This is because, in the New Millennium, soccer is less about the sport than it is about the snacks.
I remember orange slices and big coolers of water when I was a kid. Not that I was an athlete. I figured this out when I'd go to the park looking for a quiet place to read. Instead, I'd find orange rinds in the grass. Not so fun to sit and read in the middle of a pile of orange rinds.
These days, no one is that healthy. Cookies, crackers and "juice drinks" in individually wrapped packages, that's what we give our kids. Lots of sugar and refined starches. Ick. Tasty ick, but ick nevertheless.
My Aspie loves the snacks. He begs the snack mom for handouts at his siblings' games. Bright orange crackers, powdered cheese, juice boxes - well, juice pouches - and all.
Which is how I discovered that he can't open his own juice. He snagged a juice pouch at his brother's game, then brought it to me and said, "Mom, I can't open this. I have a disability."
Um ... what?
I haven't talked to him much about "disabilities" and "special needs." He can see that he's different from other kids, and generally he knows how he's different. But it's the first time he's ever used the word "disability." At all. Ever.
So, with him perched on my lap to watch his sister's game, I started the conversation. Do you know what a disability is? No, but some kid in middle school (oh, yes, we love middle school) told him he had a disability because he has an aide. We talked about how a disability isn't a bad thing, it's just a different thing. I pointed out the ways he needs extra help in school - his medication to help him focus, his new Neo to help him write, his aide to help him calm down and stay organized. And we talked about the things he's great at - that he can spell practically any word he hears and do math in his head and read a 93-page book in about 6 seconds flat. And I told him that everyone has things they need help with and things they don't.
I also finally gave him some names. We talked about ADHD and what it stands for and what it means. I didn't yet give him the Asperger's. That will come, though, now that we've opened the door.
And then I taught him how to open his own damn juice.
Because he's right. His fine motor delays have made it hard for him to learn things like how to tie his shoes or stick a pointy straw into a little plastic pouch full of sugar. But I'll be damned if I let him use it as an excuse.
So, juice. And soccer. Lots and lots of soccer. One gorgeous, sunny day. Three exhausted kids. And thirty minutes of a really wonderful conversation that helped my son learn more about who he is.
Not that his disabilities define him. What I think he's learning is that, in fact, they don't.
P.S. - For those keeping track, the Sleep Plan is so far an utter failure. I'm sleeping less than ever. It has, however, sparked the greatest response in the brief history of my little blog, and soon I'll share the interesting ideas folks have sent me. In the meantime ... well, we're going to try and kick this sleep thing off again on Monday. Wish me luck!
My little guy kicked us off (ha ha) at 8:30. He's a goofball on the field, but he takes the game very seriously. Which is only just a little odd in a four-year-old.
Then it was my diva's turn. Last year, she was a cheerleader and very, very girly. But in her recent I-want-to-be-a-tomboy phase, it suited her to try soccer instead. She's jumped in with both feet (ha ha ... yes, folks, it's Bad Pun Day here in the Elbow-verse).
We had a short break, some hot dogs for lunch, a quick turn on the Wii, then dashed off to my Aspie's game. He finished at 5:00. Nearly dinner time, and yet not one of my kids was hungry.
This is because, in the New Millennium, soccer is less about the sport than it is about the snacks.
I remember orange slices and big coolers of water when I was a kid. Not that I was an athlete. I figured this out when I'd go to the park looking for a quiet place to read. Instead, I'd find orange rinds in the grass. Not so fun to sit and read in the middle of a pile of orange rinds.
These days, no one is that healthy. Cookies, crackers and "juice drinks" in individually wrapped packages, that's what we give our kids. Lots of sugar and refined starches. Ick. Tasty ick, but ick nevertheless.
My Aspie loves the snacks. He begs the snack mom for handouts at his siblings' games. Bright orange crackers, powdered cheese, juice boxes - well, juice pouches - and all.
Which is how I discovered that he can't open his own juice. He snagged a juice pouch at his brother's game, then brought it to me and said, "Mom, I can't open this. I have a disability."
Um ... what?
I haven't talked to him much about "disabilities" and "special needs." He can see that he's different from other kids, and generally he knows how he's different. But it's the first time he's ever used the word "disability." At all. Ever.
So, with him perched on my lap to watch his sister's game, I started the conversation. Do you know what a disability is? No, but some kid in middle school (oh, yes, we love middle school) told him he had a disability because he has an aide. We talked about how a disability isn't a bad thing, it's just a different thing. I pointed out the ways he needs extra help in school - his medication to help him focus, his new Neo to help him write, his aide to help him calm down and stay organized. And we talked about the things he's great at - that he can spell practically any word he hears and do math in his head and read a 93-page book in about 6 seconds flat. And I told him that everyone has things they need help with and things they don't.
I also finally gave him some names. We talked about ADHD and what it stands for and what it means. I didn't yet give him the Asperger's. That will come, though, now that we've opened the door.
And then I taught him how to open his own damn juice.
Because he's right. His fine motor delays have made it hard for him to learn things like how to tie his shoes or stick a pointy straw into a little plastic pouch full of sugar. But I'll be damned if I let him use it as an excuse.
So, juice. And soccer. Lots and lots of soccer. One gorgeous, sunny day. Three exhausted kids. And thirty minutes of a really wonderful conversation that helped my son learn more about who he is.
Not that his disabilities define him. What I think he's learning is that, in fact, they don't.
P.S. - For those keeping track, the Sleep Plan is so far an utter failure. I'm sleeping less than ever. It has, however, sparked the greatest response in the brief history of my little blog, and soon I'll share the interesting ideas folks have sent me. In the meantime ... well, we're going to try and kick this sleep thing off again on Monday. Wish me luck!
September 29, 2009
Not My Night
Well, so much for the Sleep Plan.
Okay, it's not that bad. But it's not good. Day One's efforts were totally derailed by a break in my own routine. And Day Two is not shaping up to be much better.
Day One was a Monday. Mondays are Not My Night. As in, not my night with the kids. You see, my Aspie, he's very much a creature of routine. He requires it or he becomes a bit of a tantrummy basketcase. So when my not-yet-ex and I separated, we agreed that the kids would sleep at my place during the week in order to preserve the wake-in-the-same-place-before-you-head-to-school sameness that our oldest requires. But we also wanted to make sure the kids got lots of quality time with their dad. Bedtime, with all the reading and cuddling and caretaking - well, that's just quality time waiting for a place to happen. So on Mondays, Wednesdays and sometimes Thursdays, the not-yet-ex comes to my house after work, feeds the kids, ferries them to their activities and puts them to bed.
To make this all run smoothly, I generally disappear.
The fact that Monday was Not My Night? That blew up my sleep plan. The timing on all the little bits and pieces of my newly rigid routine went right out the window. I forgot to turn off the computer. I forgot to take the melatonin. I forgot to go to bed. If my redhead hadn't come downstairs begging me to lie down with him, I'd have been up until 2:00 a.m. at least.
The good news? He came down early enough that I wound up with 5 hours or so of sleep. Better than usual. Not quite the goal, though.
I think routines and I don't get along so well.
Tonight, on Day Two of the Sleep Plan, it was in fact my night with the kids. So I followed the routine ... and promptly fell asleep putting my redhead to bed. Now it's nearly 11:00 p.m., and here I sit, remarkably well rested considering the hour. That's 'cause, you know, I just woke up.
Yay.
Here's hoping things go a bit better tomorrow.
Okay, it's not that bad. But it's not good. Day One's efforts were totally derailed by a break in my own routine. And Day Two is not shaping up to be much better.
Day One was a Monday. Mondays are Not My Night. As in, not my night with the kids. You see, my Aspie, he's very much a creature of routine. He requires it or he becomes a bit of a tantrummy basketcase. So when my not-yet-ex and I separated, we agreed that the kids would sleep at my place during the week in order to preserve the wake-in-the-same-place-before-you-head-to-school sameness that our oldest requires. But we also wanted to make sure the kids got lots of quality time with their dad. Bedtime, with all the reading and cuddling and caretaking - well, that's just quality time waiting for a place to happen. So on Mondays, Wednesdays and sometimes Thursdays, the not-yet-ex comes to my house after work, feeds the kids, ferries them to their activities and puts them to bed.
To make this all run smoothly, I generally disappear.
The fact that Monday was Not My Night? That blew up my sleep plan. The timing on all the little bits and pieces of my newly rigid routine went right out the window. I forgot to turn off the computer. I forgot to take the melatonin. I forgot to go to bed. If my redhead hadn't come downstairs begging me to lie down with him, I'd have been up until 2:00 a.m. at least.
The good news? He came down early enough that I wound up with 5 hours or so of sleep. Better than usual. Not quite the goal, though.
I think routines and I don't get along so well.
Tonight, on Day Two of the Sleep Plan, it was in fact my night with the kids. So I followed the routine ... and promptly fell asleep putting my redhead to bed. Now it's nearly 11:00 p.m., and here I sit, remarkably well rested considering the hour. That's 'cause, you know, I just woke up.
Yay.
Here's hoping things go a bit better tomorrow.
September 22, 2009
The Sleep Plan
Since we're on the topic of lessons learned in limbo, I think it's time for the next one:
Lesson 3: Get some sleep, stupid.
Please note, the word stupid is meant to be self-deprecating. And it is stupid, the fact that I can't sleep. Because it's not like I'm in bed, staring at the ceiling for hours on end. Nope, when I go to bed, I'm out cold about 30 seconds later.
I just don't go to bed.
I know how my insomnia started. It started with the birth of my gorgeous redhead, two straight years of 2:00 a.m. feedings, and constantly waiting for the next kid-inspired wake-up call. It started with my wonderfully flexible, full-time, work-at-home-in-my-luxurious-bedroom-office lifestyle. When you work in your bedroom, believe me, it's pretty much the last place you go to relax.
Oh, and you know, the whole not-yet-divorced thing? That doesn't help.
But now, honestly, I swear the sleep gods are out to get me. Because I do try to go to bed early. Well, sometimes. But on the nights I actually get IN the bed ... well, you know the drill. One kid is up at midnight with a cold. Another gets up at 3:00 a.m. with a nightmare. Then the powers that be send road crews to the neighborhood and tell them to jackhammer the crap out of our local streets. At 1:43 a.m.
New roads. Yay.
And yes, this all really happened. In one night. Last week, as a matter of fact.
I read recently that insomnia is a learned behavior. I believe it. After four years of sleep deprivation, I believe it. And now it's my intention to unlearn that nasty behavior and kick the ass of my insomnia demons once and for all.
And so, with the help of a few very dear friends who made time to do the sleep-related legwork, I have developed The Sleep Plan. It works like this:
For 8 weeks, I will follow a rigid routine. (Yeah, stop laughing. I know a routine when I see one and dammit, I can follow one.)
The Plan starts tomorrow. And for the next 8 weeks, I'm generally going to ignore the whole family through food thing and blog about sleep. Well, I won't ignore the foody, family bits altogether; it's just not in my nature. But this is important. Long-term sleep loss is starting to affect my health. It's affecting my levels of grump. It's affecting my brain. I don't dream anymore. I miss appointments. I can't remember the names of my own kids (though that may be hereditary).
Really, not so good.
I cannot imagine I am the only person in the blogoverse who doesn't sleep at night - I'll bet there are insomniacs even in the limited bit of the blogoverse that visits here. So if you get the urge, join me. Make your own Plan. Follow along.
We'll have a sleepover when we're done.
Lesson 3: Get some sleep, stupid.
Please note, the word stupid is meant to be self-deprecating. And it is stupid, the fact that I can't sleep. Because it's not like I'm in bed, staring at the ceiling for hours on end. Nope, when I go to bed, I'm out cold about 30 seconds later.
I just don't go to bed.
I know how my insomnia started. It started with the birth of my gorgeous redhead, two straight years of 2:00 a.m. feedings, and constantly waiting for the next kid-inspired wake-up call. It started with my wonderfully flexible, full-time, work-at-home-in-my-luxurious-bedroom-office lifestyle. When you work in your bedroom, believe me, it's pretty much the last place you go to relax.
Oh, and you know, the whole not-yet-divorced thing? That doesn't help.
But now, honestly, I swear the sleep gods are out to get me. Because I do try to go to bed early. Well, sometimes. But on the nights I actually get IN the bed ... well, you know the drill. One kid is up at midnight with a cold. Another gets up at 3:00 a.m. with a nightmare. Then the powers that be send road crews to the neighborhood and tell them to jackhammer the crap out of our local streets. At 1:43 a.m.
New roads. Yay.
And yes, this all really happened. In one night. Last week, as a matter of fact.
I read recently that insomnia is a learned behavior. I believe it. After four years of sleep deprivation, I believe it. And now it's my intention to unlearn that nasty behavior and kick the ass of my insomnia demons once and for all.
And so, with the help of a few very dear friends who made time to do the sleep-related legwork, I have developed The Sleep Plan. It works like this:
For 8 weeks, I will follow a rigid routine. (Yeah, stop laughing. I know a routine when I see one and dammit, I can follow one.)
- I will work each day from 8:30 to 5:30.
- I will go make dinner, play with my kids, drive them hither and yon, bathe them, and put them to bed.
- Then, if I need to, I work again from 8:30 to 10:30. In my office. Where I'm supposed to be. See, I am realizing that my work can't be portable. It's got to have its own place and time so that, at some point, it does stop so that my brain can shut down and learn to relax.
- At 10:30, even if I'm not finished, I will turn off the computer. Yes, that's right. Turn it off. So I can't work even if I want to. And so the time sink that is Facebook doesn't drag me under.
- Then I will take a melatonin. The melatonin part is only for the first two weeks, though. The point is, after all, to do this on my own. Dependency is not part of the plan.
- I will relax and sit on my sofa and drink something warm and decaffeinated and maybe knit or read and watch something fun. Like Glee. (Watch Glee. It rocks.)
- At 11:30 I will feed the cats. Then I will go to bed. Whether I want to or not.
The Plan starts tomorrow. And for the next 8 weeks, I'm generally going to ignore the whole family through food thing and blog about sleep. Well, I won't ignore the foody, family bits altogether; it's just not in my nature. But this is important. Long-term sleep loss is starting to affect my health. It's affecting my levels of grump. It's affecting my brain. I don't dream anymore. I miss appointments. I can't remember the names of my own kids (though that may be hereditary).
Really, not so good.
I cannot imagine I am the only person in the blogoverse who doesn't sleep at night - I'll bet there are insomniacs even in the limited bit of the blogoverse that visits here. So if you get the urge, join me. Make your own Plan. Follow along.
We'll have a sleepover when we're done.
June 23, 2009
It's Good to Be the Mom
It's high time I admitted the truth. Nearly all of my parenting decisions are predicated on my relentless need for sleep.
This is what happens when you are a night owl in a daytime world. Most people wake up in the morning bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and ready to start their day. Not me. My best time is after the sun goes down. I pulled my first all-nighter in high school. By college, I'd learned not to schedule any classes before 11:00 a.m. ... and sometimes I'd miss even those.
And yet, I am forced to survive in a world where I need to be not only awake but alert and conversant by 8:00 a.m. What's even more terrifying - I have somehow birthed not one, not two, but three morning people, all of whom rise with the sun.
And for some reason, they want me to get up, too.
This is why it's good to be the mom. When the not-yet-ex left and I no longer had my a.m. safety net, I put into place an entire set of rules designed to bring peace and quiet to my mornings and keep the kids happy and safe. I can catch a few more zzz's and ease into my day.
This has had some unexpected benefits for the kids. To wit:
As punishment, I decided to enforce cooperation. I made them do the dishes.
This. Was. Brilliant.
Even more than I love sleep, I hate washing dishes. In the 43 years of my existence I have had exactly one argument with my dad. Just one. It's true. Surprising, but true. And guess what that argument was about? It was about doing the dishes. Didn't want to do them at 13. Don't want to do them now.
So yesterday, I didn't do the dishes. The kids did. I supervised. From the sofa. With my eyes mostly closed. And the kids learned two valuable lessons. They learned to be self-sufficient, and they learned to get along.
Win-win, so far as I can see.
They still come into the bedroom and jump on me at the slightest provocation. I try very very hard to enjoy it.
P.S. While these rules are designed to protect the quiet of my mornings, the fact is that I'm rarely sleeping. Most often I am upstairs in my room letting my brain get used to being awake and listening at the open door to the peace and quiet produced by three wonderfully independent, cooperative and loving children. I'm starting to realize that I'm doing a pretty good job of raising them (and, credit where credit is due, their dad's not doing so bad either).
This is what happens when you are a night owl in a daytime world. Most people wake up in the morning bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and ready to start their day. Not me. My best time is after the sun goes down. I pulled my first all-nighter in high school. By college, I'd learned not to schedule any classes before 11:00 a.m. ... and sometimes I'd miss even those.
And yet, I am forced to survive in a world where I need to be not only awake but alert and conversant by 8:00 a.m. What's even more terrifying - I have somehow birthed not one, not two, but three morning people, all of whom rise with the sun.
And for some reason, they want me to get up, too.
This is why it's good to be the mom. When the not-yet-ex left and I no longer had my a.m. safety net, I put into place an entire set of rules designed to bring peace and quiet to my mornings and keep the kids happy and safe. I can catch a few more zzz's and ease into my day.
This has had some unexpected benefits for the kids. To wit:
They can cook. My kids wake up hungry. Now, I honestly don't think they need to eat at 6:30 a.m. Not when it means I have to get out of bed. They disagree. So I've taught my older two how to heat toaster waffles, fill a bowl with cereal and milk, slice up some cheese, peel a banana, open a yogurt or two, and pour their own juice. Voila! Breakfast.
- They are responsible. The kids have noticed that if they don't let the dog out and feed her, the house gets loud and stinky, and mom gets cranky. So they take turns managing the dog in the mornings. (To be fair, this has been a kid chore for years; the difference is that now they do it without being asked.)
- They use the potty. My older two had the benefit of a grown-up morning person in the house when they were toilet training. I suspect that's why neither of them mastered the art till the age of four. Not so my little guy. He is now fully independent on the toilet and has been since he was two. That's right, two. This is largely because I move verrrrry slowly in the mornings. He hollers "Pee-pee!!!" and runs into the bathroom in a blind panic. By the time I get there he's washing his hands. (For which, by the way, WAY TO GO little guy! )
- They play fewer video games. My kids used to get up in the mornings and go play on the Wii. World War III would promptly follow. "You cheated!" "That's MY game!" "Mooooooom!!!" Screaming, bickering and tattling are not conducive to sleep. So I no longer allow video games in the morning. They play less, so their brains rot less. Yay!
- They are independent. My kids know that if they dress themselves, brush their own teeth, and head quietly downstairs, I will remain in bed. If they're lucky, this means an extra 30 minutes of SpongeBob.
- They're more creative. Books, art projects, pretend play - these are quiet and can be done independently, with a minimum of bicker-inducing interaction. Quiet is good, and TV gets boring. So the kids set out stacks of books, art supplies and toys to entertain themselves.
As punishment, I decided to enforce cooperation. I made them do the dishes.
This. Was. Brilliant.
Even more than I love sleep, I hate washing dishes. In the 43 years of my existence I have had exactly one argument with my dad. Just one. It's true. Surprising, but true. And guess what that argument was about? It was about doing the dishes. Didn't want to do them at 13. Don't want to do them now.
So yesterday, I didn't do the dishes. The kids did. I supervised. From the sofa. With my eyes mostly closed. And the kids learned two valuable lessons. They learned to be self-sufficient, and they learned to get along.
Win-win, so far as I can see.
They still come into the bedroom and jump on me at the slightest provocation. I try very very hard to enjoy it.
P.S. While these rules are designed to protect the quiet of my mornings, the fact is that I'm rarely sleeping. Most often I am upstairs in my room letting my brain get used to being awake and listening at the open door to the peace and quiet produced by three wonderfully independent, cooperative and loving children. I'm starting to realize that I'm doing a pretty good job of raising them (and, credit where credit is due, their dad's not doing so bad either).
June 10, 2009
The Done List: June 9
When I finished my business day today, I still had 6 hours worth of work left to do and a houseful of kids terrified that if they let go of me for even a second I'd vanish back to the mystical place known as Paris.
Needless to say, the kids came first.
I got back to work eventually but was distinctly lacking motivation. That's what happens when you feel you've accomplished nothing. So I squeezed in a break (I'm exceptionally good at taking breaks) and wrote this. Quickly - so it's wordy and poorly edited. I'll come back and do a proper and obsessive edit when my brain is working.
So here it is, my Done List. Like a To Do list, only better. A To Do list is all about the things you haven't done yet and get to feel guilty about. A Done List, on the other hand, is the things you actually did.
In the end, writing it down proved to me I had not spent my day in vain and provided the motivating sense of accomplishment I needed to finally finish my work. Therapy by blog. Yay me.
And so ... Today's Done List
Note: getting dressed appears nowhere on this list. I spent the whole day in my pajamas.
[Also, thanks to judicious editing, you are getting only half the list my sleep-deprived brain drafted in the wee hours of this morning. Scary thought.]
PS - Apologies here because I may have stolen the "Done List" concept from the Yarn Harlot - see blog list at right - whom I admire for more than her amazing knitting skills and creative pseudonym. Too fuddle-brained at this hour to remember for sure.
Needless to say, the kids came first.
I got back to work eventually but was distinctly lacking motivation. That's what happens when you feel you've accomplished nothing. So I squeezed in a break (I'm exceptionally good at taking breaks) and wrote this. Quickly - so it's wordy and poorly edited. I'll come back and do a proper and obsessive edit when my brain is working.
So here it is, my Done List. Like a To Do list, only better. A To Do list is all about the things you haven't done yet and get to feel guilty about. A Done List, on the other hand, is the things you actually did.
In the end, writing it down proved to me I had not spent my day in vain and provided the motivating sense of accomplishment I needed to finally finish my work. Therapy by blog. Yay me.
And so ... Today's Done List
- Cuddled 2 terrified kids through the 5:30 a.m. unleashing of unholy hell from the skies.
- Got clothes-hating 3-year-old dressed for the day. Notable because most days he walks to school in his pajamas.
- Managed to get shorts for 10-year-old into dryer in time for him to wear them to school. They were only a bit damp. Gave him hug for ignoring mom's inadequate housekeeping.
- Saw 3 kids out the door to school. Allowed 3-year-old to leave house wearing sandals with socks because it made him happy. Gave him special kissing hand.
- Made and drank life-giving coffee.
- Earned money to pay mortgage by working demanding job.
- Paid mortgage.
- Ate lunch, as proper nutrition is critical in preventing late-night chocolate binges.
- Washed 6 loads of laundry. Since it's all piled, unfolded, on my bed, I am about to go sleep on it.
- Realized I’d scheduled critical meetings in the middle of 10-year-old's graduation from 5th grade. Which is tomorrow. Frantically rearranged calendar to take morning off.
- Cuddled 2 terrified kids through the second unleashing of unholy hell from the skies, then engaged DVD player in hopes of maintaining sufficient physical separation to cook a meal.
- Made spaghetti dinner with only three meatballs and no ground anything in the house. Convinced children to eat every bite, including scary green peas. Rewarded them with duty-free German chocolates and YouTube videos.
- Boogied with 3-year-old to the Hamster Dance and the Chipmunks’ rendition of Cotton-Eyed Joe and tried to teach diva to snap.
- Supervised writing of thank you notes for teachers. Praised Aspie for writing 7 of them. By hand. Without dictation. Yes, I said 7.
- Praised diva for creating letter so touching her teacher will cry, and – more importantly – for proper use of the subjunctive. A grammar prodigy if ever there was one. Or rather, were. See what I mean? It's hard for adults, and my girl's got it nailed.
- Bragged about grammatically talented daughter on Facebook.
- Supervised 3 delightfully cheerful and independent children through bedtime. Helped 3-year-old get redressed after he soaked himself to the skin washing his hands.
- Simultaneously helped diva sound out the long words in Animal Ark chapter book (hard book - it's British), read But Not The Hippopotamus to preschooler who insisted “that’s not a hippopotamus, it’s a hippo,” and ignored 10-year-old playing video games when he was meant to be reading. The kid reads plenty.
- Distributed hugs and kisses, sprayed anti-monster "spray" around room to protect children from bumpy night-time things, addressed bedtime angst in 10-year-old, promised to check on diva "till the sun comes up," and allowed 3-year-old to hold my bellybutton until he fell asleep. Still don’t know why he does that.
- Bonded with amazing au pair who makes my life easier, in hopes she will like me enough to continue doing so.
- Confirmed details of baseball game for 15 au pairs + 3 kids on Sunday, while doing research on possible nature-themed outing for family + guest on Saturday.
- Went back to work. Wrote detailed article on difficult concept I did not fully understand and brazenly sent it off for review at 3:57 a.m.
- Posted totally unnecessary blog entry so as to further delay sleep.
Note: getting dressed appears nowhere on this list. I spent the whole day in my pajamas.
[Also, thanks to judicious editing, you are getting only half the list my sleep-deprived brain drafted in the wee hours of this morning. Scary thought.]
PS - Apologies here because I may have stolen the "Done List" concept from the Yarn Harlot - see blog list at right - whom I admire for more than her amazing knitting skills and creative pseudonym. Too fuddle-brained at this hour to remember for sure.
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