I miss REM

No, no, not the band. (Although I miss them too.)  I miss sleep. I miss deep, blissful, rapid-eye-movement sleep.

About two months ago the bubbas took to coming into our bed at 2:00 am. I was beyond annoyed. I pee and shower in the constant presence of these two. Could they not afford me the decency of six hours of uninterrupted sleep?

The mister reminded me that Magnus did the exact same thing at their age and that I was pretty gracious about it. I have no memory of this. I think they are all conspiring against me. Goddamn them.

So, my point. I think something happens in the Mother Brain after you expel the placenta. The neurons fire in a weird, OCD-like way. Once I am awakened from sleep, I cannot return to it. I lay in bed in a weird state, like right before you undergo anesthesia. In this twilight I start to think about stuff. The List. The List of Stuff. It's important stuff. Thoughts march their way across the little gray cells and they look something like this:

- Did I unload the washing machine? How come no one unloads the washing machine?
- Is it a school day? It is. Magnus will expect breakfast.
- Is Logan gaining weight? He might be gaining weight.
- The pillow covers. Are they still at the dry cleaners?
- If I fall asleep now, how many hours will I get?
- The Roth IRA. Must contribute money. Soonest.
- Logan. Is he gaining weight?

I have no idea how I used to work in a high-pressure job and maintain nighttime unconsciousness. I was more talented than I gave myself credit for.

Must go. Time to brush the kiddos' teeth, read stories, lay down and pass out. Then wake up and wonder if we brushed teeth, are the stories really enriching....

i might be insensitive

And I might be unpopular. But I am conflicted over Bruce/Caitlyn Jenner issue, and perhaps a tad pissed. (Somewhat pissed).

It's great for Caitlyn because she has fame and money and Annie Lebovitz shot her for Vanity Fair's cover. But what about most trans people, who face challenges with health care, using certain bathrooms, employment, violence, etc.?

Also....when was the last time Vanity Fair put an older woman on its cover? I'm just a tad miffed that it's a man, transitioning to a woman, who gets that coveted spot. And by older of course we mean over 45.

Should I even bring up people of color who are actually mobilizing for social justice? Maybe not.

I can get tunnel vision about things so perhaps this is a good example.

Faithful readers, and anyone else, please sound off.

the curse of the vacation gods

Based on two recent attempts to flee suburbia and go on vacation, I realize the universe is telling me something.

Which is to park my ass at home until the offspring are in college.

It started in March. Spring break was calling. We made plans to see friends who are perfect in every way except where they live. Really, they could be more considerate and move closer. We packed up the brood and headed to Northern California to the most pleasant of locations, Pleasanton.

You can't NOT enjoy someplace called Pleasanton. It is like being transported back to the 1950s. The streets are tree-lined and teeming with smiling, disease-free people. The downtown street reminds me of Mayberry, complete with a drive-through dairy built in 1900 that features the best soft-serve around.

So I hear. I didn't actually have the soft-serve, walk around downtown or do anything remotely vacation-like. The first day of the trip was spent doling out Children's Advil to the eldest bubba, redecorating the hotel room so the twins couldn't break stuff, then playing musical beds until two am. The second day we were zombies and sat by the hotel pool all day to let housekeeping do their thing, including fix an overflowing toilet. The third day I spent in the ER with the eldest for a breathing treatment (but a nice, pleasant hospital, natch). The twins were good enough to save their colds for the drive back.

For Mother's Day I had the brilliant idea of going away for ONE NIGHT. I don't see my brother enough. My mother cobbled together a plan for us to all meet at his house in Santa Two Hours Away, cook, drink and then go home. The best part was no kids. Just me, my minivan and an air mattress.

Bliss! Just one night!

It started out really nice. We drank champagne, made bad jokes, ate delicious steak. I lay down on my air mattress in the guest room, raised my head once to make sure there really were no other humans with me, then fell into a blissful sleep.

For two hours. I was awakened by the sensation of being sliced in half. I sat up and felt a terrible sense of doom. I bolted for the bathroom and will spare you the details about what happened over the next four hours.

Somehow I made it home. The drive that was serene and peaceful heading north was now the bane of my miserable, gassy existence. But it was Mother's Day. I was allowed, no legally entitled?,  to rest and be pampered. As I headed into Ventura County I savored the fantasy of collapsing in my already-made bed, catching up on several hours of REM sleep, then being summoned for a fine French meal on nice china, seated next to my quiet and already-bathed children.

I am ridiculous.

The twins were experiencing a similar GI occurrence which meant the mister was doing loads of laundry. He also hadn't really slept. I know this because when I pulled into the driveway and was about to explain my terrible night parked in the bathroom, he handed me a child and said, "I am going to bed."

So there you have it, faithful readers. Through some curious wiring of the planets and stars, I am fated to remain at home. It's safer for me here.

Oh. But please be nice and send me a postcard from wherever you are. I'd love to here how your freaking get-away is going.

Just like starting over

Okay. I know. It has been months, MONTHS, since I have written. But going off to war is hard. I had to be focused, diligently working to achieve the goal I had worked months to prepare for.

You got me. I didn't go OFF to war. I remained at home, here, where life with three boys often resembles a war zone. Don't give me that look. These people are like insurgents. Unpredictable, obstinate. Almost impossible  to understand. Many a time I could have used an interpreter. They also like to lob things, and urinate outdoors.

I know life has been tough for you without this little ray of sunshine. I will do better. I have to! Our freedom and way of life depend on it!

19 kids and repressing

I refuse to watch the reality TV show about the 20+-member Duggar clan. I have 20+ reasons why. I think my head would spin to see what dinnertime looks like, or who folds the 200 loads of laundry that get churned out each week. I was chatting with someone recently who said I should tune in because the Duggar kids are cute. I didn't smack her but I wanted to. Bad.

I won't watch the show because it bugs me that the Duggar family's lifestyle, borne out of the conservative Quiverfull religion, is glossed over in favor of soft media stories about which daughter is getting engaged and how she is holding out for her wedding night. Quiverfull women, like many women who are part of fundamentalist Christian religious groups, have specific, submissive roles to fulfill; namely, they breed, feed, clean and follow what the male head of the household says. Unbelievable to me. Sad to me. Women are capable of so much more. I refute the notion that women are incapable of managing money or making significant decisions about their household and that their purpose is solely domestic. Come on. How unfun is that? It is also worrisome. When is that kind of male domination distinguishable from abuse, physical or emotional? There are countless stories of women escaping religious husbands and communities, like the fundamental Mormon branch who inflict damage on its most helpless members by exerting excessive control.

It's also irksome that we are being fed media stories about engagement rings, wedding registries and baby making. The human rights attorney Amal Alamuddin was far more interesting before she became reduced to a media story about "nabbing" George Clooney and who designed her wedding dress. But I digress.

No Duggar watching for me, faithful readers. If I want to go that far back in time, The Honeymooners is at least more entertaining.

Magnesiums #...oh, I can't keep track

Magnus: "Mommy, are you a young mom?"
Me: (deep breath) "Of course."

These things I don't get

Flag poles into people's front yards. Or bolted onto their driveway.
Throw back Thursday, complete with awful Facebook photos. Stop it right now.
Smoked almonds. Seriously, who eats this crap?
Small mesh nets, usually attached to a plastic fruit, for babies to suck their first fruit. Why can't we give the kid the fruit to suck?
Cool Whip. What IS it??