Weak in review
The past seven days have kind of unexpectedly kicked my butt. Last Monday was an über-productive, up-before-the-sun, first-one-at-work-by-30-minutes, checking-shit-off-the-list-like-a-boss kind of day, and then Tuesday it all slid quickly downhill like a lemming off a cliff and has stayed fairly close to the ocean floor ever since.
L has safely arrived in Boston for work. Boston, that is 900 miles away. In Boston. Which is not here. Where the children who rise at 5:30 a.m. reside. DESPAIR.
Meanwhile, Rosie is unwell. I don’t know what it is that is ailing her—Mercury in retrograde, the pollen, teeth, Ron Paul—but whatever it is, she is not very happy about it. At least half of the past seven days, she has woken in the night and been awake for at least an hour, sometimes longer. Sometimes during that hour, she is incoherent and furious at everything. Last night it was L’s pillow on the bed. That pillow? It should not be there, you guys. Do not put it there. And for the love of god, do NOT put it on the floor. This will bring about a rage that no man or beast can contain. We literally set her down on the floor beside the bed to keep her from pummeling us and just waited, above her, hoping that either she would change her mind about going berserk or that we would be somehow spirited away to a tropical island. Sadly, neither of those things happened.
We could just blame the big T-W-O, but I feel like that’s a cop out, and besides, I don’t like the term “terrible twos.” I happen to think that Two Years Old is quite delightful and adorable until it is angered and the giant green muscles rip through the onesie once again. Plus, what if something really is wrong with her and we don’t stop to listen to what she’s telling us? Granted, half the time it’s NO YOU NOT DO DAT STOP SAYING DAT, but even so—I don’t want to miss something important.
Here’s hoping for a full night’s sleep tonight, complete with full acceptance of bed pillows and cheery dispositions in the morning. And also coffee. Vats of coffee.