After spending the night at Enzo’s house on Sunday, and sleeping from 3:30 AM to 6:30 AM, which (I did the math!) translates into THREE ENTIRE HOURS OF SLEEP, the boy came back home, and he hung out at our house with his troop of buddies yesterday, due to Columbus Day and major furniture sales everywhere and NO SCHOOL.
And they ran enough mileage outside to equal a half marathon.
And they climbed trees until they were covered in scratches.
And they fought the hornets’ nest and proclaimed themselves victorious.
And they created a secret code from numbers and squiggly lines and announced that it was how they’d communicate from here on out with one another as spies.
And they shot one another with rubber bands until I finally hollered out, “Listen! It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye! Just ask Hubs!” (Because low! THAT STATEMENT is funny at our house, because Hubs managed to successfully shoot himself in his eyeball at the tender age of sixteen with a .22. That little act pulled the plug on his dream of becoming a Navy SEAL, because apparently when he tried to join their elite little club, they told him, “Um, yeah. That little EYE INCIDENT. Let’s talk about that. Because how do we know you won’t shoot your fellow SEAL on accident?”)
And after all of that, that pack of boys played three soccer games in a round robin tournament last night.
And then we came home for dinner, and we had The Volcanic Meltdown. It was the kind of meltdown that leaves snot and tears everywhere, and forces Mama to simply say, “Well then. Obviously we cannot function on three hours’ worth of sleep. I want you to get into bed, and I may close the door on sleepovers for the rest of your life.”
Mama has the power to do that.
The boy responded by saying, “I’m NOT tired! I think something’s wrong with me! I feel miserable!”
And I said, “You’ll feel EVEN MORE MISERABLE, my boy, if you don’t get yourself into bed NOW.”
So at 6:45, our boy was SOUND! ASLEEP! The meltdown was finished. I put the bag of pretzel M&Ms away and decided not to self-medicate with them after all.
And then the kid moaned and whimpered in his sleep all night last night, and I was out of bed no less than eight times, checking on him and low!
Yes, people. The boy really WAS sick last night; we have the doctor bill today to prove it. It’s a virus of some kind, which causes fevers and headaches and sore throats and stomach aches and general exhaustion. It also causes a boy to say, “I can’t eat this Dairy Queen blizzard at all.” That, people, is the sign of REAL ILLNESS.
And a body cannot fight it well when it’s running on three hours’ worth of sleep.
So, since I’ve had a solid TWO HOURS’ WORTH OF SLEEP last night between all the whimpering from the feverish boy and Hubs’ determination to work ’round the clock in the name of Computer Preservation, I am going to take the bag of pretzel M&Ms to bed early tonight.
Especially since Hubs announced, “We go live with those computers at 3:00 tomorrow morning.”
Did you say “3:0o in the morning” and that you “go live”? Not only is Hubs exactly like an on-call physician, he’s also apparently exactly like a movie star.
— Reporting from the trenches, at the intersection of I’VE HAD NO SLEEP and MY KID IS SICK, this has been Mama. Good night. I am off to snuggle an eleven-year-old boy who needs me.