5:59am, 5:58am – these are the numbers I see every morning when the little Prince (aka Napoleon Bonaparte) wakes me up. What is up with that short dude? I put him to bed at 6pm – 5:59am wake time. I put him to bed at 9pm – 5:58 wake time. I put him to bed shackled in the closet hanging upside down – 5:59am wake time. (get it? ’cause he’s like the opposite of a vampire – whatever, i’m tired)
And these are the good days. There’s always at least one morning a week where numbers like 4:32am and 4:28am greet my swollen, sleep-crusted eyes. Strangely, the loudness of my voice seems to directly coincide with the order of these numbers.
The point is, just once I’d like to see some different numbers in the morning. A 7? A 8?
Really, my little autocrat, let mama get some sleep. I’m aging so fast from this hard living I look about 49 going on 57.
All because a job that looks superduper-fragalistic wanted me to have a twitter. And then the doorbell rang. And Ma in her kerchief And I in my sweats, Had just settled down To a long winter’s nap – When out on the lawn There rose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. (this will make sense once you read my first tweet)
But seriously, what have I gotten myself into now?
Valentine’s came and went this year with all the usual fanfare. The kids showed great enthusiasm for ye old day o’ love, which was sweet. Sam treated me royally, which was also sweet. And I didn’t get another ticket from Officer Friendly, which was super sweet. Oh…did I not tell you about that?
Earlier last week, my 1.5 year-old caught his sister’s cold. When Master Princeling catches a cold, sailors beware. I drove to school on Monday morning amidst high decibel whining and shouting. And by shouting, I mean the repeated screaming of a single word until I lose my mind. Examples include, “Down!” (he wants the window down), “Aqua!” (he’s dropped his water and wants me to climb back and get it for him while I’m driving), and “Mine” (usually refers to an object that he was holding, but has now lost to his sister). It’s exhausting.
Quickly I pulled up to school in the yellow zone and handed off my daughter to some hapless parent who was walking in at the same time. My darling older child gave me a hug and a kiss and marched in for all the world a woman of her own. Yes, I nodded to myself, that one’s going to be just fine. And then like a whirling dervish, I was off again. The backseat was noisy. Master Princeling wanted home. I drove like the wind. My one coherent thought in the insane chaos was simple: get baby to bed, get baby to bed. And then Officer Friendly joined the circus.
Of course, the flashing lights and strobe party quieted the Princeling right down. Please, Officer Friendly, I begged – a warning will suffice. The Princeling has me losing my mind and I need to get home to take my tonic. Two shots of wart hog makes the medicine go down, Guinness is brown, put that gun on the ground…
Officer Friendly was not swayed by the crazy in my eyes nor my melodious singing voice. I am now the proud owner of my very own traffic citation. Whoo Hoo!
It’s hard out there for a pimp.
Martin Luther King day tomorrow and school in cancelled – dear god! Another day home with the kids?! So in an attempt to make my life easier <insert heavy guffawing here> I invited half a dozen preschoolers to come over and play. And eat. And play. Twenty dollars says a fight breaks out. What was I thinking?
Which just goes to prove, I’m mentally unstable and going downhill fast.
There I was in bed finishing my book (Chosen, by Benedict Jacka*) when Sam decided to re-watch Argo. He asked me if I wanted in, I replied No. How many times can one person watch a movie about the Iran Hostage Crisis?
More than once as it turns out.
Finishing my last page I asked Sam how long he was going to stay up. (he was watching Argo beside me on the computer with earbuds) Fifteen minutes he promised me. So I took one of his earbuds out and put it in mine. Mistake Number One. Fifteen minutes passed and Sam minimized the screen, “You ready?” he asked me. I told him I just needed to finish the scene. Mistake Number Two. The scene finished and the next one began and fifteen more minutes passed quickly. Sam minimized the screen and looked at the clock. “10 O’clock,” he said. “Bedtime.” It was mid-crisis (again) and I couldn’t do it. “Just a little bit longer.” I told him. He shook his head, “See you at 2am.” He handed me both earbubs and went to brush his teeth. Mistake Number Three – I had struck out.
Needless to say, I watched the whole darn movie all over again and eventually turned off the computer sometime after 11pm. I don’t know if it’s Ben Affleck, who looks a lot like my Sam (Sam’s Beard), or the fast-paced action – well, yes I do. It’s probably mostly Benny Baby. But I watched the whole thing again even knowing for the 2nd time, exactly how it was going to end.
Ar, Go **** Yourself.
*Benedict Jacka writes the Alex Versus series
On Project Runway last week, the contestants went Glamping. For those not in the know, Glamping = Gamour + Camping. Glam-ping. Get it? And glamour camping it was; big white tents a’la Out of Africa, oriental carpets on the floor, silver platter meals, and beds that were real beds instead of god-awful sleeping bags on the ground.
Four or five years ago Sam took me camping. Up north somewhere. With roads that seemed to have been carved into the mountains and forgotten about. Long, twisty roads made of packed dirt and potholes the size of our Prius. Just me, Sam, and our 2 dogs in nature…except not so much.
It happened to be deer hunting season.
Just me, Sam, the dogs, and 7,000 armed men in nature.
We packed up camp the next morning. It was Sam’s idea. I said nothing.
And here we are again, facing the idea of camping. But this time it will be in our backyard. Just me, Sam, 1 dog, and two babies in nature.
Just me, Sam, 1 dog, and two babies in nature.
Blah blah blah – two babies in nature.
I can already tell this is going to be deer season camping all over again.
If you looked at my open tabs right now you would see that I like dresses at Anthropologie, books on Amazon, movie times (we saw The World’s End last night), and dance classes. Not that titillating, but it’s mine nonetheless. Mine. Mine? Not so much according to the new documentary, Terms and Conditions May Apply.
At half-past way too early (I was up from 3am-4:30am with the little one last night) I was thinking about all the secrets we share without ever wanting to. What if I was addicted to hardcore porn or Furry chatrooms or well, I can’t think of anything else right now (see above lack of sleep), but what if I was? And it was my secret. Mine. Not Google’s, not Joe Advertising’s, not Bank of Jamaica’s credit card department. But that’s not the case and it scares me like one of those old conspiracy theory movies.
Big Brother? Are you listening? I do not like it that you can track me on my cell phone at all times. That you can see where I live, what my laundry looks like, and what kind of cleaning detergent I purchase. So butt out, man! I’ve got a ganja farm growing in my garage and it needs privacy. (I just Googled how to spell ‘ganja’ by the way so I’ve got that tab going for me too)