Up All Night

I don’t know if you are aware of this but I cherish sleepy time.  Michael can operate on 4 or 5 hours of sleep a night but I need a solid 8 hours.  9 is even better.  When Eva was a newborn I would cry in the evenings because I couldn’t bear the idea of another night without sleep.  I love sleep so much that I get angry when I have to get up before everyone else in the house.  Thankfully this doesn’t happen often.  Sometimes I feel self-conscious that my husband is an early riser yet I detest setting the alarm for anything pre-7:00.  Whenever these feelings sneak in I just roll over and go back to sleep.  The guilt is fleeting that way.
 
Early this morning, when it was still dark outside, I was jolted awake by a little person standing next to my bed exclaiming, “Good morning!”  She was about an inch from my nose and I thought for a moment that Chucky had arrived to slay me.  Eva is very lucky I am not a violent person because this arousal was worthy of a punch in the teeth.  I was very tired any only partway through my requisite 8 hours so I quickly dragged her into bed with us and told her to go to sleep.  Sleep, she did not.  She kept shouting, “Good morning Mama, Good morning Daddy!”  She tried to snuggle up next to Michael and he instantly lunged out of bed and went into the guest bedroom.  I was secretly hoping he would return Eva to her own room but he didn’t take the bait. It was every man for himself and I was left in the foxhole with chatty-chatterton.

Eva kept talking and asking me questions as if it really was morning outside.  I kept telling her it was still nighttime and to go to sleep but she completely ignored me.   I really wanted her out of my bed but I didn’t have the fortitude to remove her.  My laziness was hindering my ability to get back to sleep.  It seems counterintuitive but there I was.  At one point Eva asked in a loud voice, “Do you like Dora?”  I responded with a calming, “Shhhhh.”  She then whispered back, “Do you like Dora?”  That’s not what I meant by Shhhhh.

She wouldn’t stop chatting.  I gave up and rolled over with my back to her.  I awoke a couple of hours later with Eva’s head crammed in my side and her arms flopped over my body.  She was sound asleep and looked very peaceful.  I watched her for a moment then I did what any normal, emotionally mature person would do.  I put my face an inch from her nose and shouted, “Good morning Eva!”

I feel much better now.

39 Big Ones

I just realized that I’m an inconsiderate oaf and didn’t acknowledge that my sweet husband had a birthday a few weeks ago.  I’ve accomplished this slight with impunity since Myke is old now and has dementia.  He hasn’t noticed that I snubbed him – or he’s polite and didn’t mention it.  I’m leaning toward my dementia theory. 

It was strange to witness Michael turning the dial to 39 this year.  We met when he was only 25 and had six-pack abs.  He was incredibly handsome and I felt an embarrassing amount of giddiness whenever I was around him.  Now his dark hair is riddled with gray and he has a larger pack of abs.  But he’s still incredibly handsome and I still experience bouts of giddiness when I’m around him.  I hope I never get tired of the guy because I sure love him.  That, and I’m too old and chubby now to snag another husband.  It better work out with this one.


We had a nice day of celebrating.  Myke’s dad and stepmom were in town and we spent the day enjoying the sunshine.  Then Myke opened presents:

And so did Eva:

His parents actually brought presents for all of us.  It’s a practice that I totally approve of.  After gifts we indulged in Myke’s favorite chocolate cream pie.  In fact, I indulged in 2 slices.  It’s super delicious and I make it for him every year on his birthday and every other holiday that seems prudent: Flag Day, Columbus Day, Boxing Day, Wednesdays.

Here’s to 39 big ones.  Happy Birthday, Michael!

Parenting Woes

I’ve mentioned before that I was certain I would have no problem being a parent.  I have also admitted that I was terribly mistaken.  Terribly mistaken. I have been a parent for 2 1/2 years now and I regularly feel like I’m screwing it all up.  I especially feel this way when Eva does the following:

• Shouts, “No way!” at me.
• Ignores me when I ask her to do something.
• Deliberately pees her pants.  
• Kicks and screams.
• Watches TV before noon.
• Eats 5 packages of fruit snacks for breakfast.
• Takes Selfies.

However, sometimes I feel like maybe I’m not a complete failure. Maybe I’m not turning Eva into a spoiled, self-absorbed turd.  Maybe.  I do get a boost of confidence when Eva:

• Tells me she loves chocolate.
• Wants to read books.
• Asks for more broccoli.
• Gives me hugs and kisses.
• Prays.

I also find satisfaction in seeing her be creative and independent. She plays in the dirt for hours.

Or builds a tower with pantry items.

I also love seeing her be kind to other kids. (Finally)

So I don’t have it all figured out yet.  I’m sure it will become easier the older Eva gets.  Especially around puberty. 

At least I can take comfort in the fact that even if I screw it all up, someday she’ll have a husband and be his problem. 

Poor sap.

Red-Rum

Eva seems to think that our washing machine is a gas chamber or a vicious monster that feeds on blankets.  Every week when I try to launder her blanket, she refuses to let me put it into the washer.   Every week.  I have to say, “Is that a rabbit over there?” and then shove it into the machine on the sly.  Otherwise she’ll grab it out of the laundry pile and run away screaming and crying.  She also shouts, “It’s all clean!  It’s all clean!” in an effort to make me think I’ve already washed it but somehow forgotten.  She obviously thinks that my brain is decrepit.   

I understand she loves the blanket and that it’s been with her since birth, but I don’t believe that is any excuse for having it smell like soiled underwear.  Her underwear smells soiled and we don’t need redundancy with the blanket.  Today she rescued her blanket from death-by-washer and sat on top of it so I couldn’t sneakily swipe it.  I admire her devotion to the anti-laundry movement.  Unfortunately for Eva, I’m loaded with good ideas.  I turned on Dora and pinched the blanket while she was distracted by the counting in Spanish.  Victory for me again.

Gracias, Dora.