It's 5 a.m. and I'm sitting on my living room floor.
I wish I had some sordid tale to tell you all about how I ended up curled up on the floor with my favorite-ever Yankees blanket, but alas, I do not.
I have a teething, wakes-up-every-30-minutes-to-yell-at-me, can't-decide-if-he-wants-to-be-held-or-stretch-out-so-he-just-yells-at-me-more, six month old. He wanted nothing to do with his pack and play, our bed or his bed last night. So finally, in the wee hours of morning light I came out into the living room, made him a bottle and he fell asleep in his sister's bean bag chair after feeding himself.
That bean bag chair might have been the best $20 we've ever spent. In our lives.
And his dear sissy followed us out soon after. She's been dealing with a congested cough and after dying down for a few days it picked up again last night. So she took to our recliner chair, kicked the footrest out, curled up with her Minnie Mouse blanket and fell asleep watching Handy Manny on her iPad (or, as I call him when it's four in the morning and I'm exhausted, "Hanny Mandy.")
She was restless most of the night. At one point, she said her ear hurt. I'm thinking it could be an ear infection, although, at three years old, she's never had one, so who really knows. No fever, she's been acting fine (at 10 p.m. yesterday she was in the kitchen begging to help cut up some veggies from our CSA box). And then nighttime sets in, mommy's a crab ass, daddy has to get up in seven hours to workout, and all hell breaks loose.
I've come to a few revelations in the almost-morning light. Seriously, I know it's the summer, but how lazy is that sun out there? I was up before it and that just never happens. (Going to bed as it rises, sometimes, but awake BEFORE it, for shame!)
And they itch. Like hell. Like the Dickens. Like, A LOT.
And I've also convinced myself that they're never going to go away. Ever. I'm going to be an itchy eyesore for the remainder of my days.
Also, made me rethink the whole Chicken Pox vaccine. I thought it sounded silly when my doctor told me that was one of the bijillion immunizations children receive these days. (We follow an alternative/delayed schedule, he helps us pick and choose which ones are right for our family). I was flabbergasted (that's the kind of word you use at 5 a.m.) when he strongly recommended that one for the kiddos. I remember thinking to myself "I had chicken pox and I didn't die from it. I remain unscathed, I hardly remember it. Sure, it was a little itchy, but ..."
SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP.
I take everything I ever said about anything itchy back. In fact, I actually do think I am emotionally traumatized for life. Hell, this poison ivy deal has latched onto not just my body, but my psyche. And I think it's taking a little piece of my soul away every day.
Or maybe it's just making me cranky and over dramatic. Whatever.
And lastly, while I'm only on my first cup of coffee and this day isn't quite starting off the way I planned, I subconsciously have hope that it will get better. How do I know that if it's subconscious, you might ask?
My coffee cup.
We have an assortment of mugs and the color or style I choose usually dictates my mood. There's this really drag, rusty orange color that means I've already given up on even the notion that the day might be good. Then there's the olive-colored one. It's the one I have when I know the day ahead is going to be rough, but I want something familiar and cozy to help me through it. And there's the bright, robin egg blue one which means I, by some stroke of luck, have woken up chipper and ready to greet the day. The last option, the one I selected this morning with bloodshot eyes and a heavy head, is a cream-colored mug with paisley decorations with colors that marry all the other mugs. It's my "well, your day may not be what you want it to be, but let's see what's in store! Maybe it's good, maybe it's bad; but at least we're about to dive in!" mug.
So there's that.
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