I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.
Actually I woke up in the wrong bed this morning. I had to sleep down in the basement because while I stayed up late working on some stuff for my calling, Clark got out of bed about 20 times. Against all my fire-breath wishes, my husband let him get into our bed, which is where I found him at midnight. He is the heaviest kid on the planet. And he sleeps in a top bunk. And I was way too tired to try to pull off the the hefting and heaving (and possible bad words under my breath) that would probably be required to relocate him. I maybe could have woken up Matt to help except that, oh, that’s even harder than moving Clark.
My kids are sleeping horribly. IS ANYONE ELSE HAVING THIS PROBLEM? I don’t know if it’s the daylight savings, longer day issue or what, but even when I put them to bed on time, they are playing and tossing and turning and not falling asleep for a couple hours. And THEN, they’re getting up earlier and earlier. I’m talking about times that kindle my wrath, like BEFORE 6 a.m.
Remember that video I linked to a little while back? The one where the comedian (I mean WISE, WISE man) said, “Sleep deprivation in a mother leads to murder.”? Well. It’s not as hilarious as it was a week ago.
So. Sometime around the inhuman hour of pre-6:00-ish, I hear Clark thumping around downstairs where I’m trying to sleep. Anyone who knows Clark knows he does everything in a very thumping way. He even thumps when he tiptoes. I try to ignore him, but I just can’t so I woke up much earlier than I wanted to (in a very not-surrendering, grumpy kind of way).
I then resented every one else in the house who was still sleeping. Which is stupid, but I did not care.
My children like oatmeal. I used to like oatmeal . . . before they started waking up so early and trying to make it on their own. EVERY morning, I wake up to whole-grain artwork around my kitchen. WHY do they pour more of everything than they need? Would not the fact that the bowl cannot contain it be a clue that perhaps the serving size specifications have been surpassed? I think I could probably feed a third world country if I added up all the quick oats I’ve vacuumed up the last six months. In order to keep my blood pressure under control, I will only mention in passing the milk that they insist on pouring while seated on the floor and the large bottle of syrup that I bought 2 weeks ago and has now totally been consumed as a “garnish” for their oatmeal.
Natalie is 3. Getting her dressed in the morning is, um, difficult. She is going through a stage where all of her clothing “feels funny” or “weird” or “too tight.” She even squats into strange, contorted positions and wails “It feels funny when I go like this!,” to which I lovingly respond, “Well then don’t go like that.” And then I mock her by wrapping my leg behind my head and saying “My pants feel funny when I put my leg like this.” And she kind of laughs, but it’s still strangely demonic. This weeping/screaming/crying with desperate sobs routine continues as I try to get Grant dressed for school. It is now the end of the year and most clothes have holes in them or are getting too small, so the “get dressed!” portion of the morning drags itself out for much longer than it should as I repeatedly ask him to try again.
This is also the time of day when Grant and Clark confess that even though they said they didn’t have any homework on Friday, they just remembered that they really do, and then argue with me and cry when I tell them they need to stop playing and DO IT. I try to unload the dishwasher to make room for the unsupervised breakfast aftermath. My husband sleeps through all of this, which fills me with an unexplainable jealous rage. It goes without saying that this is the time of day where mothers who are not bound by covenants begin drinking whiskey.
This is all dumb and unimportant. I KNOW. But sometimes I am dumb and unimportant and mornings like this make me CRAZY. I am writing this because, deep down, I know that even though this is NOT the right way to act and react, it is NORMAL, and I’m banking on the fact that some of you readers totally get this.
I DID feel some temporary relief when I said the morning prayer and had to thank my Heavenly Father for the things we enjoy and do not deserve. But the recovery was temporary because life just kept happening, like when Clark and Natalie ripped all the blankets and sheets off my bed and jumped on it (which I’ve only asked them 3,279 times not to do) and when they couldn’t find their shoes and made me late for my class at the gym (and didn’t care). And Clark missed his kindergarten bus because he kept crying that I told him to make my bed. And right now I’m having an ongoing argument with Natalie about using the bathroom before her nap.
So I’m forcing myself to have a count your blessings moment. This is your chance. One up me. No, really. Put my problems to shame. It’s probably pretty easy because this post should have been called “An Adversity List for Pansies.” Please don’t give me advice because I probably won’t like you. Never mind, that’s rude and maybe I need it. But I think a reality check would do me a world of good. Here, I’ll give you a trigger: “You think that’s bad? Well . . . “