What did those kids do to that nice lady?

Monday, November 17, 2014

Play On

I tended to gravitate towards the strawberry soda. Everyone else stuck to the usual Coke or Pepsi, but me? I was going to take full advantage of this opportunity and pick whatever I wanted-for soda was a rare treat-but this post-game tradition was deserved and as the coolers were flipped open and met with enthusiastic cheers from my teammates, I knew my unconventional choice was a winner. Slurping the sweet treat, I would goof around with the team, both winner and loser, before shuffling back to the car, the victory or defeat of the game already slipping from my memory. Oh Treasured Childhood. Come and gone before you even have a chance to realize how good it is. 

And can you believe my mother remembered it was our week to bring soda with NO Sign Up Genius to remind her? Or that everybody on the team showed up and nobody played for their club team instead or left early for another game or missed the game entirely because they were being dragged to their sister’s gymnastics tournament two hours away? And we were all the same age; not one or two kids larger in size and years because they were “held back” by over-zealous parents who wanted their kid to dominate. There was no team mom; we didn’t need a banner to remember what our name was, and there were certainly no organic-gluten-peanut-GMO-free snacks being passed out in cute little favor bags. We played for fun. We played because our friends played. We played to get dirty and sweaty. We played to enhance our lives, not consume them. We played for ourselves, not for our parents. We wanted to win, of course, but so many years later, I don’t remember winning or losing; I simply remember...playing.

Watching Son’s baseball team lose yet again, I reminded myself that this was just one game. That he would lose bigger and win bigger. That one game, even one season, does not determine his strengths or weaknesses. And as we shuffled back to the car, the defeat of the game slipping from our memories, I focused on his dirt-smudged face, his sweaty strands of hair, and the way he limped just a bit from the heaviness of his bag. I smiled in spite of myself. Oh...Treasured Childhood.  It’s come...but it’s not gone. Not yet. Play on. 

Friday, October 31, 2014

Happy Halloween...

A love letter to my Children on Halloween:

Dear Small, Cherished People Who Live in my House,

It is almost that time of year again. No, not Christmas.  (Even though that will be here in approximately 7 minutes Adult Time and 7 years Child Time.  Ohhhh…how I want to live in Child Time again.) It’s Halloween. Now, I know you know this, Dear Children, because you have been counting down the days for an estimated 7 months and also, because my beloved Target has been inundating you with this approaching Halloween Holiday since late August. Now, I get it. I’m excited too. It’s the only time of the year I will allow myself to eat those little squares of heaven called Peanut Butter Snickers. I’ve never been a huge-“Halloween is my Favorite Holiday!!!!” kind of person, but I certainly remember the great joy it brought me when I was a child. Strolling the sidewalks in strange clothing, the lamps on the street guiding our way as the leaves crunched beneath our toes, knocking on all those familiar doors, eagerly awaiting what little treasures would land in our outstretched, greedy bags. There was the house that always gave us dimes and nickels. There was the house that always gave us regular sized candy bars. (WHAT!!!! AMAZING!!!) There was the house that was always dark and clearly not meant for little hands knocking. And there was the loot! Oh-the loot that would last for weeks! Halloween was truly awesome.

But people are trying to steal Halloween from you, Dear Children. People, who once upon a time were Children themselves. These people grew into Adults and are now trying to suck the fun out of this one night a year. They are acting like this Halloween tradition of cruising your neighborhood and collecting candy is going to RUIN YOU. That you will become sugar-crazed, greedy little children. They are giving out STICKERS. And PRETZELS. They’re pushing their Organic, GMO-Gluten-Free policies onto YOU, on this one, sacred night. This ONE NIGHT you wait 364 days for!  But I will not do that to you. I will let you have your fun, and eat it too. These things I promise to you, Gelato Children, on this Halloween Night:

  1. You may trick or treat as long as you like. For we know it’s not so much the candy as it is the  act of trick or treating that is truly the fun part.
  2. You may eat as much candy as you want on this night. 
  3. No Magical Little Fairy is going to come and take your candy from you while you slumber and leave you a toy instead. You earned that candy. And the last thing I want in my house is another shitty toy. The only person stealing your candy will be me.
  4. I will steal your candy whenever I want. I may or may not ask you for permission.
  5. You know I want the Twix, so just hand them over and nobody gets hurt.
  6. You may keep in your possession the bag of candy for a few days with no questions asked. But once I find candy wrappers in your bed (Daughter), I will repossess the candy and pass out as I see fit. 
  7. After a week, give or take, I will quietly retrieve the leftover candy, discover that, once again, you’ve hardly eaten any of it after that first wondrous, miraculous night that was Halloween, put it into a large ziploc bag, hide it in my cupboard, and use it to bribe you for various reasons over the next few weeks. It will soon be forgotten, and one day, while searching for that pie pan I can never seem to find, I will discover this bag of candy and I will toss it. 

In other words, Dear Children, go have the best time. Find your friends on the darkened streets, be silly, say Trick or Treat and thank you, get a sugar high and create memories. We only have so few of these precious years. Just a handful of years where the world is magic to you. When Santa is real; the Easter bunny exists; small, flying fairies leave you dollars for recently departed teeth. And your neighbors give you candy simply because you knocked and said Trick or Treat!

Have a wonderful, safe, Happy Halloween. 

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Gelato B&B

The other day I was scrolling through my email when I came across a couple from Husband with links attached to them regarding Bed and Breakfasts in Maine. I clicked on the links and was quickly escorted by the magic of the Internet to these charming little B&B’s thousands of miles away. Oh, that’s sweet. Husband was planning a get away? A little something different? I’ve always wanted to visit Maine; it seems very romantic and rustic. Of course, pretty much any place sounds that way when you take Children out of the equation.  Oh-you want to visit Barstow?  Sure! Do they have a nice hotel there?  AWESOME.  But...as I looked closer to the link, I realized that these Charming Maine Bed and Breakfasts were FOR SALE.  And that Husband wasn’t planning a trip, he was dreaming of a purchase. Yeah, this was a little Pie in the Sky, sitting around killing a few minutes kind of email he sent me...I mean...who hasn’t sat around and dreamt about a different kind of life in a different place? I mean, CERTAINLY not me, especially not when two Small Children are losing their shit at the same time over Insignificant Crap and the only creative thought I seem to manage most days is something new to make for dinner....no no no...it’s the dream life here, baby. But Husband wants to BUY a Bed and Breakfast and RUN it?  


Listen, I’m the first to admit that we are very spoiled in the Gelato House. Our needs are more than met. We live in a beautiful place NEXT TO THE OCEAN. I maintain a suntan all year long.  When the temp hits below 55 or over 80, we are cranky. I get to be home with the Children, a job that no one will ever thank you for and will turn you into a Crazy Person, but a job you will never regret holding. And while most people may think our Stay at Home Mom Days are filled with yoga and coffee, the truth is we are busy being your Slaves. And the very last thing that sounds like a relaxing, dreamy life change is being Slave to More People. I can see it now: I’m making beds and turning out tasty appetizers while Husband is the “Bartender” hosting wine tastings in the parlor at Happy Hour. Husband talking football in the Breakfast Nook with Happy Guests as I’m covered in muffin batter and slugging shots of espresso in the kitchen. Eight bathrooms to clean instead of two. Oh my God...can you even imagine the amount of laundry? Sheets and towels and sheets and towels and sheets and towels EVERY.DAMN.DAY.  And of course in Maine there would be an actual yard to maintain with actual trees with actual leaves that will fall from it that will actually need to be raked up and Husband, being from a place that has ONE SEASON, a rake might confuse him, not to mention a shovel and turning on the car 37 minutes before you might want to leave so the chances of freezing to death en route to destination are slightly less. Also-I would have to be NICE to these people ALL OF THE TIME because they are paying us to stay in our Charming Bed and Breakfast and my occasional outbursts of WHY CAN’T ANYONE PICK UP THEIR DAMN TOWEL? might be frowned upon and also get me a bad Yelp review. 

So....yeah...listen. I’m out on the Bed and Breakfast in Maine Fantasy.  Instead, Husband, keep coming back to your very own little Bed and Breakfast, Casa Gelato, where your bed is made each morning, your laundry is cleaned and folded, and dinner appears before you each night and you didn’t even have to THINK about it and sometimes you get yelled at for not hanging up your towel in a perfect and efficient way. Yes, there are two Small Children who must be attended to and a Wife who may or not be cranky depending on the mood of the two Small Children BUT the good news? You can still host happy hour.  Every.Damn.Night.

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Privacy Please...

Here in the Gelato House, The Children have always had an interesting relationship with water.  There was that time when Son was 10 months old and suddenly developed an intense fear of water, refused to get into the bathtub, and would only bathe in the sink like a newborn baby. There was then that period of time around the age of two when Son decided  he would not even entertain the idea of touching the Pacific, and also, the sand was decidedly too close to the mighty sea so we weren't allowed to venture near the beautiful beach so blessedly close to our home without an intense toddler breakdown. Daughter, on the other hand, has rarely displayed even the slightest fear of the ocean, but a nice, warm, swimming pool?  No thanks.  She’ll duck dive the cold waves all months of the year, and if she can be naked, even better. Ask her to take a nice cruise around the pool with you and she will make you regret that you even asked. And the very mild request that maybe they start taking a shower instead of a bath?  No way in hell.

Until now.

I thought it would never come.  I was beginning to believe that my Children would never, ever take a shower.  How could they become Fully Functional Adults if the mere thought of water pouring gently down on them from above sent them running down the hall, naked, screaming NEVER!!  That doesn't seem like a selling point for future relationships.  But I'm happy to report, through no bribery or encouragement from myself, Son has recently discovered the shower. Baths are for Babies and showers are for Big Kids and while I am thrilled with this new development, there is one very strict rule I must follow while Son is taking his shower: I turn the shower on for him and then I must leave immediately and give him ABSOLUTE PRIVACY for the duration of his shower.

Wait wait wait....privacy while taking a shower? Whaaaa? Privacy and Parenting are not two worlds that can co-exist.   Think of the last time you actually closed the door to use the bathroom and it wasn't knocked on, pushed open, or body slammed against all because some small person NEEDS you NOW and it CAN'T WAIT for the 27 seconds it will take for you to pee the pee you have most likely been holding for at least three hours. So, Son requesting PRIVACY for his precious little shower after years of me not even being able to use a feminine product without some child asking me What is THAT? makes me cackle a good cackle and assume that per His request for PRIVACY, I am encouraged to NOT do the following while Son is showering:

-Turn the lights out, point a flashlight at him, and ask him about all the insecurities he may have about his body

-Take a shit right next him and ask him when he's going to be done so he can wipe me
-Press my face against the glass, run my hands down the door and scream his name at an unnecessary volume

-Barge in any time I feel like it and ask him 187 times in a row “what are we going to do today?”

-Ask him about all his parts and why they look different than mine

-Take his towel and throw it on the ground juuuussst out of his reach

And let's not forget my personal favorite:

-Lie down on the floor, suck my thumb and stare at him for the duration of his shower

Although it would be fun to impart some sort of revenge on Son for the many showers interrupted, I remind myself that I am the Parental Unit and I need to save up all my pranks for when it really counts: the Teenage Years. So until then, I'll turn the water on for him, close the door juuusst enough so I can check on him without his knowledge, and let him enjoy his shower.  

In privacy.

Friday, June 6, 2014


So, it’s almost that time of year again.  And I know what you’re thinking...isn’t every day Father’s Day?  No, no, no, not that holiday.  The really, really...really long one that comes right after that.  The one that lasts not just for a day or a week, but months. Come to think of it, some of you may be experiencing this holiday RIGHT NOW.


Here’s the thing about summer.  I’m ready.  I’m down.  I am waiting for it with my arms wide open, ready to be embraced in a big, warm hug of no morning rush, no homework, no drill sergeant scheduling.  No leaving the house strictly by 8 am, fingers crossed that Offspring sorta kinda brushed their teeth.  No making lunches covertly in the corner praying the Children don’t notice you and when they do, because they always will, this happens:

What are you putting in my lunch?
What kind of food?
Food you can eat.
Tell me what it is!
It doesn’t matter.
You like it, don’t worry.
It’ll be a surprise.
Go bother your father.
He’s in the bathroom!
Of course he is.

So yeah, summer has a smiley face on it right now.  A big, beaming smile that will ultimately start to fade into a crooked, deranged one come August.  But we’ll get to that another time.  Like, in August.  If I’m still alive.  Or not in Mexico.

Now, I’m not one to ship my kids off to camp week after week in the summer.  I don’t “work,”  I “stay home” and have “lots of time to run errands” and “work out” so there’s no reason, besides mental sanity, (which is completely overrated), for them to be gone day after day, week after week. Also-damn!  Those camps are expensive.  Also-damn!  You gotta be on top of that shit in like March and I’m too lazy to think about summer in March.  I don’t WANT to think about summer in March.  I want to think about March.  

 So, as much as I know that my kids will drive me crazy during the dog days of summer, I will try embrace the fact that it’s the 10 weeks or so of the year that we’re not racing off to something, we’re not getting mad about homework or being dragged out of bed.  Sure, we’re getting mad that HER ELBOW TOUCHED MY PLATE, but that sort of behavior is enjoyed year round.   I want my kids to remember summer the way I remember it; long, lazy days filled with the outdoors and my imagination.  I know that I can’t replicate my own experiences for my Children and I certainly want them to have their own, not to mention that summer in Iowa and summer at the beach will have their obvious differences, but I desire for them to have the sense of freedom that summer should hold for kids.  These years are slipping by too fast and what I wouldn’t give to have one more day to feel the grass upon my back with the sun shining on my face, the scent of lilacs in my nose, and the day wide, wide open in front of me.  

What does that song say?  Summertime and the livin is easy?

Here’s to easy living this summer to you and yours.

(Also-I’ll most likely be insane by the 4th of July so maybe just check in.)

Thursday, May 1, 2014

Shopping S.O.S

A few months ago, my well-loved gym shoes were worn out and it was decided that a new pair was needed.  Husband, although his shoes were not as...well worn...as mine, decided that he, too, could use a new pair and it just so happened we found ourselves at The Large Sports Store where we were most likely buying yet another pair of cleats or goggles or socks for Small Children who, apparently, CONSTANTLY NEED THINGS.  (On a somewhat related side note: Go buy stock in The Large Sports Store.  They have all of our money.)  So there we are, lamenting the joys and costs of Children Playing Sports, when Husband suggested that while we were conveniently located inside The Large Sports Store, we should look for new gym shoes.  

I looked at him blankly and said, but the Children are here.  
He was like, um, yeah, they are.  
Then I was like, I mean, they’re like WITH us.  
And he was all, uh huh, like what’s your point?   
And then I was all:

OH YEAH!  Husband doesn’t SHOP with the Children!  

When Husband needs something, he just...goes to buy it.  By himself.  He can concentrate and not be distracted by Small Children playing “spy” inside the clothing racks.  He can make a Thoughtful Choice about the purchase he is intending to make. I imagine it something like this:  Hmmm....I like this shirt.  Maybe I should take a couple different sizes with me to the dressing room where I will be able to take a good, long look and check myself out from different angles to decide that yes, this is a good shirt, or no, I do not like this shirt.  I shall put it back.  

It’s all so civilized.  

Which is the OPPOSITE experience of attempting to purchase anything with Small Children.

Which is why I stared at him blankly while the Children were running sprints around us at the fake track The Large Sports Store decided painting around the Shoe Department was a good idea and wondered if Husband was actually in the same place as me or if he was some weird hologram my eyes had imagined because surely, SURELY, he can’t mean he wants to buy shoes, like...now.  

But he did.

Now me, being well practiced in Making Bad Decisions While Shopping with Children, I knew the first step to this process was to just point to a few pair of shoes I liked when the Sales Person decided to eventually stroll over as slowly as possible to see if I needed help.  Then while I am waiting the 27 minutes for him to come back, I will search The Large Sports Store for the Children, where I will find them shooting hoops in the middle of the aisle at that nifty basketball hoop that just so happens to be erected.  I will then drag them back to the track so they can continue their sprints and I will see Husband trying on shoes, trying to make a Thoughtful Choice, AS IF NOBODY ELSE IS EVEN THERE.   I see my little pile of shoe choices and try a pair on and notice it is suddenly too quiet and ask Husband where the Children went and he will not know so I will shove the shoes back in the box and tell him, here, these are fine and then I will go discover the Children have taken up golf, more like hockey golf, at the putting green  The Large Sports Store has so thoughtfully provided.  And I will drag them back to the Shoe Department to continue their sprints and we will all wait, as impatiently as possible, for Husband to debate on which shoe feels better, as he has one on each foot as he continues this Thoughtful Choice Process.   And my head will try not to explode.

And when I get those new pair of shoes out to wear for the first time at the gym, I realized, yet again, that I made a terrible choice.  As they hurt my feet.  My gym shoes hurt my feet.  That’s not cool.  Heels hurt my feet, yes, but that is expected, required even, out of shoe that has a heel on it.  Gym shoes:  they are not supposed to hurt.  But mine did.  

Because of the Children.  

I’m pretty sure I’ve racked up enough Bad Decisions While Shopping with Children that we could have perhaps gone to Fiji.  But instead...I’m just gonna go look for some new shoes.  By myself.  

In Fiji.

Friday, March 28, 2014

And Then She Was Five...

On my 5th birthday, I received a pink bike.  My mom made a little treasure hunt for it throughout the house and when I ended up in the back yard, there it was, shining brightly, awaiting the adventures we would have together.  I remember most of that experience so vividly; I can still feel the warm July air; I can still see the blue demin dress I was wearing; I can still hear the anticipation in my mom’s voice of what was about to happen.  Five is a special number for a kid, and my family made it special for me; so special that 28 years later, I still think of it and smile.

When Son turned five two years ago, it was special.  One whole hand required to tell the world how old you are.  He was finishing up his last year of preschool and climbing trees and playing soccer.  When did my firstborn baby become a little kid?  He suddenly seemed so big which made it easier for me to still then look at Daughter as my baby.   She was still then my constant companion; my running buddy, my napper, my go-to girl to head to Target with.  All this independence that came along with Son turning 5 was still a bit overshadowed by this Girl who still needed me to do so many things with her, for her.  I stopped to enjoy it a bit more because if Son could turn five so quickly, it was only a matter of time before I would blink and she would be right there, letting go of my hand to climb a little higher on that tree.

And now She is five.  And how special She is.

For if you know my Daughter, you know that there is no one quite like her.  A Girl who marches to the beat of her own drum.  A Girl who eschews a Princess dress in favor of a ninja sword.  A Girl who seems to be filled with so much silliness that you can’t help but smile when you glance at her in spite of yourself.  A Girl who reminds me so much of myself as a child: putting on shows in the front yard for no one in particular, slamming doors not once but twice to make sure her mood is recognized, making up stories with facial expressions as big as her imagination.  Her sense of humor is one of her greatest attributes, for even her Brother can’t help but laugh at her antics.  When she wants your attention, she demands it.  Don’t you dare ignore her.  I can already see her wings sprouting; I can see that she is going to want to fly.  And I know that I will have no choice but to sit back and watch her soar.

As I watch my Children grow, I am so overwhelmed with gratitude.  And I can’t believe, even though eeeevveerrryyyone likes to tell me, I really can’t believe how quickly the years go by.  Enjoy every minute, they say.  And while I am maybe not enjoying every minute, I am doing my best to remember that any moment, any day, any adventure my Kids experience has the possibility of being locked in their brains forever and I can only hope that they look back and remember that it was...special.

Happy Birthday, Baby Girl.  May your life be as big as that imagination of yours.  May your life bring you as much joy as you bring to me.

I love you to the moon and back.

Thursday, March 6, 2014

Fancy That

Once upon a time, way back when Son was in his first year of preschool, and Daughter was just the sweetest little attachment on my boob, I experienced my first “Ski Week.”  Yes.  You read that correctly.  “Ski Week.”  Not spring break.  Nope.  That comes later.  (Just a few convenient weeks AFTER Ski Week actually.)  I remember looking at the calendar posted outside his classroom and thinking to myself, (or more likely saying out loud to the innocent bystanders near me):  What. The Fuck. Is Ski Week?  

Funnily enough, growing up in Iowa with ALL THAT SNOW, we didn’t have Ski Week.

We had snow days.

For when, you know, it was TOO DANGEROUS to go to school.

But here, in Fancy Southern California, they have “Ski Week” so Fancy Kids can go and see the snow they are so deprived of.  In case it’s not coming across the way I have intended, I was pretty bitter about the concept of this so-called Ski Week.  That first year of preschool, I had a two year old and a newborn and the THOUGHT of NOT HAVING those 8 hours a week Son went to school because Fancy California Kids had to go skiing made me cry.  My first question was: If we are NOT skiing during Ski Week, may I please still drop off Son at his classroom?  Turns out: no.  You may not.  Second question: Someone tell me again WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?

Short version: schools in certain Fancy Communities were losing money because so many Fancy Families were taking their Fancy Kids skiing over Presidents Day weekend and staying the entire week so schools were losing money so Fancy Communities said WHAT THE HECK!  Let’s make Ski Week a Thing!

Flash forward 4 years.  

What did the Gelato Family do during Ski Week?

Go skiing.  Duh.  

It’s one of those moments when I looked at myself and thought...I am sometimes, once in awhile, hopefully not very often, that very person I used to make fun of.  And, whenever possible, still enjoy making fun of.  I mean, does the very fact that our family went skiing during Ski Week make me...Fancy?  Are people snickering at me?  (Answer: Yes.  Always.  For many more reasons, I’m sure, than skiing on specifically assigned week to do so.)  

As a child growing up middle class in Iowa, I was not privy to such experiences. A great vacation to us was a HOTEL!  With a POOL!  Amazing.  In fact, one of my greater joys in life is comparing Husband’s childhood vacations with my own.  Let’s just say...we never made it to Kauai.  Or Australia.  Or Whistler.  But we did make it to Omaha and Chicago.  And let’s not forget South Dakota.  A cooler full of sandwiches and RC Cola, a deck of cards to keep us occupied, and we were off.  And I remember them all with great fondness.  (Probably more fondness than my mother who I’m sure would have died and gone to heaven if she could have just handed us all an iPad and some headphones.)  So, it definitely is an...adjustment...for me to get my Children to appreciate these vacations.  I mean, it’s certainly not their fault that they are being raised in this Fancy Community, but it doesn’t mean they get to be dicks about it.  Point in case: when we told Son that we were going to go to Mammoth for Ski Week- his response?  “Mammoth?  Again?”  Daughter wasn’t much better: “Do we HAVE to go to Ski School?”  No, you little assholes.  You don’t HAVE to go to Ski School, you GET to go to Ski School.  I mean...WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?  

And then it hit me.


They’re Fancy.  

Don’t worry.  I know what to do.

Nothing knocks down a little Fancy like some unpaid manual labor.  You don’t do it for allowance, you do it because I told you too.  Also, I’m thirsty.  Aaaannnddd....I could use a snack.  And could you keep it down out there while you’re washing the windows?  Mama’s shows on are.

If anyone’s going to be Fancy in this house, it’s gonna be me.

Here’s to being not so Fancy.  Until you deserve to be so.

Thursday, February 6, 2014


One thing you know for sure before you have a baby...one thing that is and always will be THE TRUTH, is that you will be tired.  In the beginning, it’s that ‘What the Hell Happened to My Life and Why is He Crying Again’ kind of tired.   1AM feeding?  Doable. 4AM feeding?  That one hurts.  But even during those 4AM feedings, after being sprung awake and falling out of bed and stumbling down the hallway in darkness, I had nothing but coos and ahhs and songs and kisses and hugs and a gentle rock to put the babe back to sleep.  It was lovely torture to be so tired.  And as I would quietly walk back down the hallway to my bed, it seemed my eyes would barely be closed and I would be asleep myself, knowing in 3 hours, the wake up call would be the same.

But 7 years and two kids later, Mama ain’t so nice anymore at 4AM.

While I have survived or just blacked out many Phases of Bedtime Battles, I am now much more unwilling to be a loving, caring Mother at 4AM.  These Phases include, but are not limited too:

*Son’s Night Terror Phase
*Son’s ‘I must eat 5 grapes before I go to bed or I will make your life a living hell’ Phase
*’Every single light in the house must be on all night’ Phase
*Daughters ‘5AM is when I want to start my day, okay?' Phase

While in these Phases, they seem inescapable; like for the REST of your LIFE one child will wake up trembling from a night terror while grape juice is sliding off his chin and the other is yelling at you in the middle of the night “WHY DID YOU TURN THE HALL LIGHT OFF?” and just when you doze off to sleep, somebody’s internal clock from hell rings at 5 am and it’s time to be a Parent.

But...as a Phase implies, it passes, and soon enough bedtime is predictable, and for the most part, everyone can put their heads on their pillows with the expectation that it will be a civilized 7 AM before we all see each other again.  

But there are always exceptions.  Oh YES, there are exceptions.  

And these exceptions...let’s just say they are not always a welcome break from my ever-increasing struggle to Sleep Normally.  

These Exceptions include but are not limited too:

*Extreme dehydration at 2 AM followed by IMMEDIATE need for fresh water
*Daughters inability to cover her own head with her own sheet and the need for IMMEDIATE assistance 
*Crippling leg pain.  Or thumb pain.  Or left big toe pain.  Or elbow pain.  Band aid needed IMMEDIATELY.  Yes.  Band aids apparently cure crippling leg pain at 3AM.
*Inexplicable concept that ice melts.  Ice cubes needed in cup IMMEDIATELY.  

Whenever these Exceptions occur, the following usually happens:

I JOLT upright,  confused and sleepy, practically breaking my leg as I tumble out of bed to get to the Children’s shared room before ONE wakes up the OTHER ONE and then I slowly begin to realize that I have been awoken from slumber because Ice. Melted.  Instead of reacting with gentle love, it’s much more likely that I don’t speak for fear of saying something that would sound really mean, laced with four letter words, so instead I just take the damn cup and put some damn ice in it and try not to throw it back in their bed and then I say I love you! in this weird voice that’s implying that maybe love isn’t what I’m necessarily feeling at the moment and then I shut the door and mumble all those four letter words I was just keeping on the inside moments ago under my breath because I know it’s going to be very hard for me to get back to sleep because apparently as you get older, sleeping soundly is like this elusive mystery, so NOW I don’t get to sleep for the REST of the DAMN night because SOMEONE CAN’T DRINK ROOM TEMPERATURE WATER AT 2 AM?  WHERE DID I GO WRONG?

But I will at least attempt to put myself back to sleep and as I crawl back into bed, Husband mumbles something to the effect of “Everything okay?”, I think, oh yes.  Everything’s great.  I’m going to go ahead and pick up that copy of War and Peace I’ve been meaning to tackle because ICE CUBES have now prevented me from sleeping for at least two more hours.  And there I will lie, trying my hardest to think lovely thoughts to put me back to sleep...and I get so close...it’s like sleep is just tempting me...letting me fall into it’s fluffy little pillow...and then I...hear...it.  That sound.

You know that sound.
That loud breathing sound that turns into that loud snoring sound.  
That sound that makes you seethe with anger.
That sound that makes you shove your Spouse perhaps a liiitttlllee to rough to get him to roll over. 
That sound that makes you want to sit up and shout-OKAY!  I GET it!  You’re SLEEPING.  And I’m NOT.  You are SO GOOD at sleeping!   ANY CHANCE YOU COULD DO IT SILENTLY?  



Turns out, 4AM is a great time to binge watch Orange is the New Black.
Now those ladies have real problems.

Happy Sleeping.  It’s nice work if you can get it.