After a healthy 5-hour nap, the Young Child is awake again, coughing, and wiping out her mouth, which evidently tastes like shit. I’m surprised she didn’t wake when her father was downstairs puking his intestines, and very disappointed in myself for not going straight back to bed (!) when that was over. Nope, I had Things to Look Up, and you know, message boards to check. All the cool people post between 1 and 5 a.m. And an hour later, here I sit with a child who thinks nighttime is slumber party in mom’s room time, and that when the laptop is open that means it’s time to go to Starfall. My attempts to resist this are met with more wailing that turns into fits of wet, racking cough. Why don’t I just go play the fucking pumpkin game and get it over with, you ask? Because it’s not just the pumpkin game, Internet. It’s the gingerbread man and the snowman and the turkey, and the letters P, K, and M. Only those letters.
“juuuuice!”, she wails, eyes half shut, feebly begging for something, anything, to take the sick taste from her tiny mouth. When we get to my bedroom I run downstairs for the juice, stopping in to check on M, who is asleep sitting up in bed; He’s under two comforters, half eaten slice of white bread on a plate in his lap and trash-bag lined bucket by his side. Okay. He’s set. ToddlerA thanks me (remember, the child’s first words were thank you, a fact I will wield like a sword for the rest of my life when Other Moms brag about their kindergartners and their stupid algebra websites) when I hand her the juice cup, takes a healthy swig, and points to the TV. I’m holding my ground though, because I know what’s on at 5:38 a.m. Workout shows (no, and thank you!) infomercials, and bad local news. And kids? I’m just not up for the squeaky voices of cartoon network after MY 5 hour nap.
Last night the Child slept in bed with me, a bed that is over five feet across. Just the two of us. No matter how many times I gently moved (well toward 4 am there might have been a shove or two) the kid to the south 40, I would wake up feeling as if the world is closing in on my dreams to find her little heatbox body glued to mine. I’m truly happy for those of you who co-sleep happily with your children. Lying beside her last night, her hand curled around my thumb, foreheads touching, I thought perhaps my husband should ALWAYS sleep on the couch, so sweet and delicious were those moments. And then the inevitable: I wake up, hanging off the side of the bed, There is no escape. Even as I inch toward the edge of the (HUGE!) bed, I feel her sleeping form pick up on this, and she begins to roll, to stretch out sideways, feet in my face or forehead in my neck. Hell, I think to myself. This is what it feels like, sleep deprived and crowded out of bed, personal space invaded, and boundaries non-existent. And we’re about to do it all over again. Holy shit.