Tag Archives: dutch oven

No rest for the wicked

13 Jul

Sometimes, it seems parenthood is like an endurance test for your nerves.  No, wait, it’s more like some twisted, fucked up SAT test that you have no idea how to prepare for or what to study.  Or that the test is even coming.  

“You may begin the test…now!”  Question 1: It’s 10:00 at night and you’ve already gone into your whiny 2 year old’s room at least 4 times, and hollered at him through the door to “LAY DOWN!  AND GO TO SLEEP!” another 3 or 4 times.  Now he’s half way sobbing and mumbling barely audible, incomprehensible answers when you ask, “What’s the matter?  Why don’t you want to go to sleep?  What’s wrong with your bed?”  All you can make out is something about the floor being scary.  Or the ceiling fan is flipping him out.  Can’t figure out which.  You and your spouse try to reassure him, rock him back to sleep, anything you can pull out of your feeble, tired brain to get him to lay down and just Go. To. Sleep. Already.   

After an hour of these futile attempts, do you:  A)Put him back in his bed, despite the flailing and crying, mutter sweetly “Good night, sleep tight!” and run for your life?  B)Keep rocking him and pleading desperately with him to please go to bed until you both collapse in an exhausted heap? (Actually, you’ll probably collapse in an exhausted heap, and he’ll sit on your stomach and play with his Buzz Lightyear doll)  C)Strap him into his bed with 3 yards of duct tape, turn off the monitor and blissfully fall into your own bed to sleep?  Or D)Bring him into your own bed, hoping against hope that he might actually lay still and sleep? 

I failed miserably at last night’s pop-quiz parenting quiz. I don’t know what the right answer is, but I considered all of them. Despite everything I’ve ever said, thought, or believed, somehow I decided that D was the correct answer.  WRONG!  I think it’s one of those trick questions, where there is no right answer and you have to make up your own shit as you go. 

Needless to say, I am operating on less than 6 hours of disjointed, broken sleep, which was punctuated by me growling, “Lay still!”  “Go to sleep!” and “For the love of God, if you don’t quit flopping around like a dead fish and be still, I’m going to strap you to the lawn furniture on the porch”.  Okay, I didn’t say that last one, but I was thinking it. 

In my sleep deprived and desperate brain, I thought he might actually cuddle up in the bed between us, and I’d drift off into sweet slumber.  Yeah.  That didn’t happen.  Experienced mommies would be laughing their ass off at me.  Instead, every 10 seconds, he would roll over, shift positions, or actually do a 180 where his feet were on the pillow.  Then, just for fun and to make sure I didn’t actually fall asleep during this, he would roll over onto my head.  Or lay sideways, with his head digging into the sore spot on my back that I didn’t even know I had until he drilled his hard little skull into it.  I have no idea how long that lasted, but I think it went on for about 2 years.  Or maybe an hour.  I don’t know, it’s all blurry.  At one point, I think he was asleep, but then Hubby started snoring, and the flopping began anew.  I could have strangled them both at that point.   And why do I have to be the recipient of the flopping and burrowing and drilling and smothering?  Why can’t he bug the shit out of Hubby?  Hubby, by the way, had rolled over on his side so his back was to us, and he was probably out in about 30 seconds.  Eventually, T did fall asleep.  And then at some point, the flopping started over again.  It felt like I had only been asleep for 5 minutes when Hubby’s alarm went off.   And the flopping, and whispering “Mommy, I want to watch TV”, and “Mommy, where is Daddy going?” started over again.  I finally gave up and decided I’d just have to get an IV bag full of coffee, insert it into my vein, and carry it around with me today. 

Oh, I almost forgot the best part.   About ½ an hour into the flopping and smothering, my cute, adorable little son actually perfected the “dutch oven”.  You know, where someone coyly lets off an insidious, stinky, God-awful fart under the covers, and then pulls the covers over your head?  Yeah, he did that.  Oh. My. God.  I didn’t know whether to gag or cry.  Or both.  Then he proclaimed proudly, “I pooted!”.  Yes, son, I already know.  Thank you for taking ownership at least.  It’s a good thing I love that kid.