This week, Moldy Monday was followed by Soggy Tuesday.
*Warning to Parents: The following passage may elicit strange feelings of déjà vu (mostly because this is likely every godddamn night in your house too).
“I’m going to bed early so I can get a nice, full night’s sleep!”
Jolted awake by a panic attack
Jolted awake by a dog having a panic attack (or choking on the piece of toilet paper roll she tried to eat at 7:30pm- the jury’s out).
Jolted awake by footsteps. Footsteps inch closer and closer. Eyes are squeezed as tightly as possible to prevent the owner of said footsteps from knowing I’m awake.
Footsteps cease. Sniffles commence. Sniffles graduate to quiet sobs. Eyes reluctantly open to find a forlorn, wild-haired, very soggy 3 year-old standing next to my side of the bed. Soggy child points to her pants repeatedly.
“Did you have an accident?” Pointing continues.
“So you had an accident?” Pointing becomes increasingly more frantic.
“DID YOU PEE YOUR PANTS?”
“Yes! Why are you yelling at me?!”
Pee-soaked child is washed; bed is stripped; new, dry pajamas are on; child formerly known as soggy is gleefully bouncing up the stairs to my bedroom. Dry, gleeful child climbs directly into the warm burrow of blankets and sheets that I’ve carefully constructed over the past few hours.
Whatever. At least I can finally get some sleep.
“Mommy, is it time to get up?”
“Mommy, can we watch tv?”
Child commences restless shuffling, sighing, and kicking. I am now perched precariously at the edge of the bed. My head is inches from the corner of the nightstand. This could end poorly.
Whatever. If I get knocked unconscious at least I can finally get some sleep.
Husband exits the bed. Child follows.
“Grace, it’s not time to get up. I’m taking a shower and going to work.”
Child collapses into a sorrowful heap on the floor.
“Grace, stop, get back in bed with Mommy. This is ridiculous.”
Child gets up, walks towards bed, and swiftly throws herself back to the floor.
“Grace, get back in the bed! It’s 3:30 in the morning!”
Child commences hysterical, body-wracking sobs and throws herself into my arms.
Husband throws up his hands and exits bedroom.
Child flashes red, fiery eyes in my general direction. “Why does he DO that?! He ALWAYS DOES this to me!”
“He GETS up and I WANT to go downstairs JUST to get a baba milk and THEN come RIGHT back to bed but he ALWAYS says no and tells me to get back in bed! It’s not nice! It’s not FAIR!”
“Grace, this is literally the first time that has ever happened.”
My comment has reignited the red eyes of fire. Child pushes herself off the bed, retreats to a corner, sits on the floor; begins pushing the bedroom door open and slamming it shut with her panda sock-clad toes of fury.
Again. And again. And again.
Whatever. Maybe the creak of the hinges will lull me to sleep.
Apparently the child has now returned from her self-imposed solitary confinement.
“I can’t sleep.”
I internally rage scream Oh How Sad For You!!!
“Because I can’t sleep because I need to apologize for acting like that.”
“I’m sorry. I love you.”
“I love you too, Gracie Girl. Can we please get some sleep now?”
Child burrows into my carefully-crafted blanket burrow AGAIN.
Whatever. I can still get 1.5 hours of sleep if I fall asleep right this second.
Constant shuffling, snoring, kicking and disgusting amounts of blanket stealing by now soundly-sleeping child. I seriously consider just getting out of bed and cooking all of our dinners for the week.
Alarm makes cheery sound. I resist the urge to hurl it across the room into the laundry basket.
“Gracie, it’s time to get up.”
Child begins crying that she needs more sleep.
I resist the urge to hurl myself across the room into the laundry basket.
*A Warning to Young, Carefree Coworkers: If you should come into contact with any slightly puffy-faced, droopy-eyed, or otherwise not quite right-looking parents on this fine, sunny day, this is likely why.
Do not make snarky comments. Should you choose to make a snarky comment, exit the vicinity immediately and do not ask these coworkers for anything for at least 3-4 hours. Or days. Or ever.
Do not claim to understand or commiserate with us because you “had to get up at 7am to hit the gym after staying up to Netflix binge.” We long for those days.
Our bingeing involves 1800 renditions of Baby Shark and Baby Finger and other Baby-related earworms. Our gym time is now running up and down stairs with children covered in pee, peanut butter or the occasional peppermint gum that they swiped from our purses and smeared all over themselves.
Do not approach without a small gesture of understanding.
Hand us coffee, or chocolate, or just take all the work off our desks and offer to do it for us.
Just a small gesture.
But don’t pity us- we’ll sleep tonight. Or tomorrow night. Or when the kids move out.
You know, whatever.