|DD in M's shoes|
This is a problem. Not just for the usual outnumbered-by-unhappy-children reasons, but also because, not being used to this, I am making stupid, stupid mistakes.
For example, as a general rule, as soon as I close the nursery door, I'm basically done being Mommy for the night. I can, say, make myself a meal. Or a cup of tea. Or study. Or watch some 30 Rock.
So, last night, I did what I normally would do. I put the kettle on, put a pot of artichokes on the stove (an extra special treat!), and began to do my homework. A few minutes into this lovely routine, the screaming begins.
|SI in my shoes|
That said, I definitely heard somebody being miserable. I went into the nursery, expecting that I would tuck everyone back in, make sure everyone has their own loveys, and then leave again.
The moment I close the door behind me, SI starts shrieking as though she has been stabbed. I stand on the far side of the door for a moment, trying to decide what to do. I know she's exhausted, she didn't nap well. But I also know she can scream for ALL OF TIME if she decides that it's in order to do so. I also knows that, if I snuggle and rock her, it will only take about three minutes to have her out cold. So, I heave a heavy sigh, and return to the room. I take her out of the crib, and begin to rock her. As expected, her eyelids droop and her breathing slows, but she doesn't go to sleep. I can't blame her. It would be hard for me to sleep if there was somebody five feet away shouting and laughing and JUMPING ON THE BED as hard as she possible could.
|DD hams it up|
Yes, DD was screwing me over on this one.
So I finally reach the point where I'm sure that, given some peace and quiet, if I put SI back into her crib she'll sleep peacefully. I cautiously put her in bed, and pick up DD. Got to get her to settle down, or my night is going to get mighty long.
DD is elated to be held and rocked. So happy, in fact, that she must laugh and smile and cover me in kisses. All well and good, but SI's crib is much closer to the rocking chair. Directly next to the rocking chair. So each expression of mirth by DD rouses SI a little more. I try everything. I swaddle DD. That's very funny. I throw the blanket over her head, despite the fact that it's already very dark. This is a GREAT game! She throws the blanket over my head. I shush and shush her, she makes raspberry sounds.
|SI cleans it up|
And it's not one of those, "I just want to go relax with my cup of tea," sorts of migraines. No... it's got a new, different sort of flavor. It's one of those, "This is a toxic environment and I must get out," migraines. Like I get in the perfume section of department stores. Like I'm breathing something that isn't supposed to be air.
And then I smell the smoke.
And then I remember that I had dinner on the stove at the opposite end of the house, the hour ago that I entered this nursery that is starting to bear a strong resemblance to Hell.
I literally throw DD back into her crib, and go running across the house at top speed. My beautiful, beautiful artichokes- my talismans of Spring and the husbandry of my own psyche- they are on fire. All of the water has evaporated, and the poor tin steaming tray upon which they rest... it is blackened and sooty.
The smoke smells vaguely cemeterial. And I start to go blind.
|DD eating a Hamantaschen|
But, of course, the only room where I can go to lay down and be in pitch blackness is my bedroom... conveniently also the only room with a direct connection to the sounds coming out of the nursery. Very loud, VERY unhappy sounds.
What do I do instead? I finish off a bag of Oreos. That's what a responsible adult does when under extreme duress, right?
I eat a bag of Oreos, I snipe at M when he finally returns from school, I throw away a hard boiled egg that I am completely incapable of peeling, and (of course) I completely fail to finish my homework. I go to bed early, hungry, in pain, the moment I'm certain that the noises from the nursery are gone for good, and before I can say anything too terribly rude to the wonderful man emptying my dishwasher. It's all about damage control.
|SI hears there are cookies over here|
So, so naive.
DD, who didn't exactly go to bed happy, awakens early- not unusual if she's had a bad night. She wakes up as early as mother, and remembers immediately that her mother doesn't love her anymore. The conclusion she must have been reaching while I downed my dunked Oreos without chewing them up first.
And me? As soon as the sun hits my eyelids I remember that I've got a raging migraine that's trying to kill me. I take an arsenal of quick dissolving, fact acting prescription drugs, and go to meet my destiny.
The girls, both awake now, helpfully assist me in dressing and changing them. They give me countless kisses and hugs while I cook them french toast. And then Our Mary Poppins arrives, and I hit the books.
In the only quiet, child-free room in the house. My bedroom.
|Oh Grandma, I wish I could blame you for my woes.|
I awake several minutes into my second of three classes of the day, when the diaper service calls to inform me that our credit card has been declined.
And my migraine? Yup. Still there. Nice and mushy instead of stabby and achey, but still there.
So here I am. Updating my blog instead of learning about horizontal management and collaboration. No- that class starts in about two minutes. Right now I should be learning about American defense policy. (Note: Now that I've added pictures of my children being extremely adorable- something that always helps me feel better about being a bitter parent- I should in fact be learning about networking and non-hierarchical management.) But regardless, I'm not going. I'm listening to Our Mary Poppins go through the drama of nap-time without going to her aid, at a nice, comfortable, quiet distance, and I'm wondering when I'm going to squeeze in the time to do some extra credit to make up for today.
And I'm really wishing I had a fucking artichoke.