Where’s the frickin’ SNOOZE button?

I used to be a terrible sleeper.  Before I gave birth to progeny.  My brain wouldn’t shut down.  If something woke me at 6:25 a.m. on a Saturday morning, no matter how tired my body was, I was incapable of returning to slumber.  Thoughts would careen from synapse to synapse.  Bits of songs,  lines from a play, whatever most occupied my waking moments, would sabatoge my rest.

Then I had Rissa.  After experiencing new-parent exhaustion, falling back to sleep wasn’t an issue.  When I pushed through those 2 a.m. feedings, I found that I could sleep through anything. And as long as Rissa wasn’t calling for me specifically in the middle of the night – I was good.  I could coast on that bleary-eyed mental fog,  my constant companion in those early years, and let David handle the middle of the night.  If Rissa was calling for me?  If she was whispering for me in the middle of the night?  I was up immediately.  That maternal protection gene is wicked fierce when it hits you.  But if David was there, I could tune out any noise. I could let him grab her and bring her to bed – I could sleep while I was nursing her.  I did.

Which means that for the last 13.5 years, apart from trips to the ER with croup and dealing with the hot flashes,  I’ve been pretty rested. And then, we signed the papers to buy the new house.  Which means that now?  My sleeping is completely ravaged.  If I wake up needing to pee before dawn – I’m screwed.  As soon as my eyes open, my natural inclination to obsess rules the rest of my body.

How are we going to convert the buffet to a vanity for the new bathroom?  Is the kitchen faucet a single hole or a three hole – we have no closeup pictures of the sink!!!  Do we have enough boxes for our books?   How much will we have to pay the electricians for their re-wiring job of the 3-way switch in the front hall – why haven’t they invoiced us for that yet??  Where will the kitty litter boxes go in the new house?  “Where are you from Jesus, what do you want Jesus, TELL me!”

When David came down this morning, I’d already been up for hours.  “We’re going to have to drug you, aren’t we?”

“Either that or whack me on the head whenever you feel me stir in bed.  I’m willing to take on a concussion if I get more sleep.  What’s your blunt instrument of choice?”