Poor and Boring Writing, At It’s Best

Have you ever felt like you’ve had a shot of Novocaine straight to the head?

I’d like to describe the sensation to you, but words fail me at the moment.

The over-nighter that the boy had last night? Oh, people. It was a smashing success.

If by smashing success you mean that the fun lasted until after 12:45 this morning.

The boys? Oh, they were in their sleeping bags in the family room. And the lights were off. And the parents in residence here were in bed. But the giggling and the laughter and the snorting just kept going and going, and no amount of threats scared any of the three of them into submission.

But finally, by 12:50 this morning, the noise had quit. The delinquents were passed out cold. The house was finally, finally quiet.

And Mama had The Insomnia by the then.

Oh, Hubs thunked out cold at 12:51. After realizing that the giggling in the basement had stopped at precisely 12:50, Hubs lasted for another sixty seconds, and then…boom! He was gone, already in his REM stage.

And I laid there. And I laid there. And I tossed. And I turned.

And at 4:00 this morning, I tried to decide whether I’d be better off getting up and showering and making some chai tea and putting on some mascara and perfume, or whether I should maybe change locations and attempt to get a few minutes of slumber.

I opted for the second choice, and I hauled the comforter out to the sofa in the living room.

And sometime around 4:30, I passed out.

It lasted until 6:45 this morning.

My morning wasn’t as bad as I’d expected, because the boys had to be gotten up and shoved out the door to golf and swim conditioning, so I had no time to stop and remind myself of how little sleep I’d actually gotten. However, they were more inclined to burrow down further in their sleeping bags, so I had to physically pick Enzo up at 8:40 this morning, prop him onto his feet, point him towards the bathroom, and say, “Honey, your dad is going to be here in ten minutes, because the two of you have a 9:00 tee time at the old golf course.”

And the boy? I shook him out of his sleeping bag and said, “Swim conditioning, son. It’s calling your name.”

And poor Carter, who had nowhere specifically to be this morning, got to sleep until 9:00.

On our way to the pool this morning, the boy said, “Mom, do I really have to swim today? I’m so tired!

Oh, people! Do you know the SHEER PLEASURE that I took in saying to that boy of mine, “Yes, of course you have to swim laps this morning. This is how real life works, son. Sometimes you stay up really, really late, and you have a lot of fun, but there’s usually a piper who needs to be paid early the next morning.”

And the boy said, “What’s a piper, and why does he need money?” Clearly, our teaching moment sort of sailed right through his exhausted head.

But the boy did his laps in the pool, and his swim coach said, “Wow…he’s sort of dragging this morning.” And to that, I replied, “Feel free to work him harder! He kept me awake most of the night!”

And afterwards, I hauled the boy to the summer movie matinee that’s offered each week in Small Town, USA. By the time we got in line for refreshments, I realized that I wasn’t going to make it in the upright position much longer, so I simply asked at the counter, “Do you have any drink that’ll take the hair plum off a dog? Something like a cold bucket of ice water to the face?” All the teenage boy could offer me was Mt. Dew, which I am not a fan of.

What I wanted was a 5-Hour Energy Drink and a nerve pill. What I got was a medium Mt. Dew and a bag of popcorn, and you’d think that Small Town was having a butter shortage, with how the teenager decorated my bag. In the class of Popcorn Adornment, I would have flunked him. And gladly.

And then?

Well, as usual, drinking a whole Mt. Dew made me feel like I’d taken a little spin on the Rollercoaster of Death. Mt. Dew, people, doesn’t like me.

By VBS time this evening, I was sort of picking up my second wind, and I dropped my three favorite non-sleepers off at the church, and I met a pack of other VBS mamas at the nearby park, where we sat at a picnic table and talked.

And talked.

And talked.

And talked.

Because, if you’ve been by this blog at all before, you’ll already know that Hubs is convinced that this is all grown-up girls ever do.

But do you know what? The little park is quite close to our house, and Hubs eventually joined our little girl party, and I sort of think he actually enjoyed himself a bit.

Grown-up girls who talk too much are a whole lot of fun.

But now, after having retrieved those three adorable small fries from VBS and gotten everyone home, Mama has hit a wall, and my head feels like I’ve taken a plunger of Novocaine straight to it.

I have nothing interesting to tell you tonight, because I am working in slow motion.

And also? My new phone that launches satellites into orbit?

My nine-year-old boy figured out how to do anything (and I do mean anything!) on it this afternoon in less than ten minutes. He’s taken a dozen pictures, made four phone calls, sent a text message out to his dad, watched three videos on You Tube, signaled six airplanes to land, and located my blog, all on my phone.

Clearly, a total lack of sleep for him does not mean that he can’t function enough to outdo me on my phone.

And you’ll excuse me now if I just end things abruptly here and head to bed. I’m hoping to get more than two hours’ worth of REM tonight.

And also? I dreamed that my sister got a new lab puppy between 4:30 and 6:45 this morning. Sister really did get a new lab puppy — he’s a little black one, and he’s adorable. But in my dream, he was a little yellow lab puppy. And in that dream, Sister was calling a fawn with spots all over him to her back door, as she told me, “You’ve got to see my new puppy!” And I said to her, “Sister, that’s a baby deer! It’s not a yellow lab puppy!” And Sister kept insisting, “No, that’s our new puppy!” And the fawn wouldn’t come to her, and she was getting upset with it, so she marched across the yard and slapped a collar around his neck and attached a leash to him, and I kept yelling, “It’s a fawn! It’s not your hound!” And I couldn’t understand, for the life of me, why Sister didn’t realize that she was dragging a baby deer by a leash across her yard.

And that is when I woke up at 6:45, a little disoriented and dazed. And I had the munchies.

So tonight’s agenda includes many REM hours and no little spotted fawns.

Happy Wednesday night, people.

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