I know he's not so much trying to kill me but...Bad night sleep last night for Cal, which means for me too. But he mercifully drifted off into nappyland some time mid-morning, and he looked so comfy there on the couch that I decided to snuggle up with him, rather than just collapse where I stood.
I should tell you that I sleep very soundly. If someone is hurt or about to vomit, I snap upright like a dog when someone's blown one of those whistles that goes at a frequency only they can hear. Otherwise, so long as neither life nor limb is in jeopardy, forget it. Ask my husband, who wakes up if you look at him too hard (this got to be a fun game once I got the hang of it). He's threatened to steal my blood in the night so he can infuse himself whatever hormones I have that let me sleep like this.
Yes, it's a very nice ability to have, being able to sleep through armageddon and such (especially since I've heard it may be coming Saturday, everybody mark it down on your i-berry-droid-o-phones). But don't think I don't pay for it. Has it ever been said that no mother's nap goes unpunished? Or is that just how it looks from my neck of the woods?
Cal woke up first. That's why it got ugly. I don't know how long it was before I came to, but let's just say it was long enough. Have you ever seen footage of what bears do to a campsite? Or maybe there's been a time when a family of nearly-starved raccoons have visited your yard the night you put all your trash out for collection. Either scene, my friends, is a two-page glossy spread in Country Living compared to what happened in my home this morning.
It could have been worse. Because the lucky thing is, the boy decided to climb into the washing machine and turn it on. This is a potentially dangerous situation, particularly once agitation sets in, so my internal "somebody-may-need -a-bucket-or-an-ER-visit" siren went off so I could save the day. My first reaction: "What the...I didn't start a load of laundry yet today..." Second reaction, beeline between the couch and the laundry room leaving a cloud of dust like right after you hear the Road Runner go BEEP BEEP.
After the extraction of my 60-pound preschooler from the washer (not a high-efficiency machine, I might add) and my return to normal waking non-emergency consciousness, all I could do was stare, wide-eyed, open-mouthed, as I scanned the disaster area.
The kitchen was ground zero. We have a lock on the refrigerator. HAHAHAHAHA on us. The first thing I noticed was the broken eggs. Unfortunately we'd just bought an 18-pack of those (a little later I'd start finding bits of shell that made it into the livingroom). String cheese everywhere like it's been sprayed out of a can on Halloween. All his pull-up diapers, that he for some reason loves to play with, arranged all over the floor like stepping stones. Extra-large economy-sized can of coffee, almost full...do I even have to say it? Don't make me say it. Oh, there were also the red grapes he loves so much. Well, perhaps in homage to his dad's new career in wine sales, or his mom's love of classic I Love Lucy episodes...yes, there was stomping. Stomping.
But hey, I'm a glass-half-full kinda gal, y'know? (Even as we speak, I'm sitting here with a glass half full of something, if ya know what I mean). The upside is that the kitchen is cleaner than it's been since before I made Christmas cookies. You could eat off the floors for probably five more minutes, because I'm sure any potentially remaining salmonella bacteria from the raw eggs is history. I may have had to search high and low for a mop...and heavy-duty germ killing cleaning solutions...but dammit, I found em, and waged war on the whole everloving mess.
Because that's what I do.
But I may never sleep again.
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