Ever since our kids were born, I have not been able to sleep without my eyes half open and one foot ready to hit the floor, running. Pseudo-sleeping, I like to call it. A mother's legacy. I'm jealous of our son and now even our daughter (who until this summer would be up at 6:30 every morning, whether she had to or not), for their incredible ability to sleep through everything: dogs barking, giant storms, snow plows in the winter, alarm clocks, the muffler-less truck owned by the dude currently shacking up at our neighbor's house (THAT is a whole other blog in itself). And there was the time one of our son's friends played the cute prank of setting his phone alarm to go off at 1:30 in the morning. Do you think the son woke up and turned his alarm off, which happened to be right next to his head? No. I had the pleasure of blindly trudging down the hall, stepping on who knows what was lurking on his floor in the dark, finding the phone, and fumbling to turn the damn alarm off. I still haven't figured out how to pay back this friend. But it'll happen. You know who you are. I wonder if I can coax his mom into loaning me some mortifying baby pictures.
I'm also jealous of Jay's ability to fall back to sleep, once woken. By 4:45 this morning, thunder, rain and wind going at full force, he was back to sleep, happily snoring away. Oh, wait, he doesn't snore. He makes sure to remind me of this factoid, even when I'm kept awake for good chunks of time by the goofy sounds escaping from the back of his throat (not snoring), only being extinguished by me ripping the covers off him to make him roll over. I remember reading an article on tips to get your husband to stop snoring. One of them was to sew a tennis ball in the back of his pajama top. Oh, really? "Here, Jay, put these pajamas on that can double as a torture device. Trust me, they're SO comfy. And they're excellent as a lumbar massage!"
And so I have been up for a very, very long time today. To think of what my sleep-deprived, over-caffeinated self has accomplished: laundry, breakfasts for everyone, grocery shopping, almost all of Sunday's Globe crossword, and now this blog that just keeps going. Yup, I'm smugly patting myself on the back. Who cares if my left eyelid has had a constant twitch in it for the last two hours? Or that if I stop drinking coffee, I will crash so hard I'll end up on my ass on the basement floor? I even had the impulse to go out looking for Shirtless Running Guy. I had a good feeling about it: driving up and down his regular route, one jittery hand on the steering wheel, the other on my camera. Alas, no SRG. It was at his regular time, but the day started out warm and muggy, so maybe he was out earlier. I want to shake my fists at the sky and yell, "Shirtless Running Guy, WHERE ARE YOU?!" I am not giving up, I'll eventually get the perfect shot of him. I even swung by the cat-on-the-leash house to see if they were out. Nope. It's just not in the cards to get a fun pic today. This is all I got:
|No SRG. Boring.|
|Still no SRG. Still boring.|
I have a feeling this is going to be one of those days that drags on...and on....and on. You know the kind. When you look at the clock thinking it has to be about 3:00 PM and it's only 10:30 AM. By the time our daughter's softball game rolls around tonight, I should be ready to snooze on the bleachers. I wonder if I can get away with wearing something pajama-y. At least I don't snore.