I stumble and fumble around the dark room, dodging pointy Barbie doll parts and a fleet of ride-on toys. Swaying to the imaginary waves on the imaginary ocean, I hiss profanity under my breath when my shin meets the corner of my solid wood bed.
I’m dizzy and disoriented.
But I’m not drunk.
No, that would be too enjoyable.
I’m. Just. Tired.
Where am I?
Who am I?
Looks at husband. Who is this?
I think this makes trip number 3 down the hallway and back. The first time for the oldest who had a bad dream. The second time for the newborn who decided she was starving. The third time for the 2 year old who had a diaper so rancid I could smell it halfway to her room. I sincerely considered just pretending like I didn’t smell it and heading back to bed, but I am sure that is some form of punishable abuse.
So after 32 wipes, new pajamas, starting a load of laundry at 4:30 a.m., and considering (then reconsidering) squirting dish soap directly into my nostrils to just make sure I got it all, I was ready for sleep.
But the 2 year old wasn’t ready for sleep. Honestly? It was probably physically impossible for her to sleep in that kind of stench lingering in her bedroom.
So I gave in to her request for Sofia the First at 5 a.m. and found myself drunk-shuffling down the hallway again and walk-of-shaming my way out to the couch with her on my hip.
Fearing judgment from all the people who advise against such parenting practices, I forgot where I was for a moment, and I said (to no one), “What are you looking at?”
Half-lucid (and half-crazy), I managed to find Sofia On Demand, and I squeaked out 22 minutes of peace before her marshmallowy hands were smacking my forehead. “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. MOM! Sofia’s over! Mom. Mom. Mom.”
“Why am I the only one who knows how to find Sofia? You’re old enough to do this now!” I said to my 29-month-old baby child.
I can laugh now at the ridiculousness of this statement to a child who still poops in a diaper, but at the time, it made perfect sense.
As did the time when my children found me on the couch after another long, sleepless night, and my husband had already gone to work for the day, and they stared at me for a good long while before asking, “Can we have breakfast?”
And I was like, “Why do I have to feed you breakfast everyday?”
Of course I know how that sounds, but in my sleep-deprived fog, I just say the darndest things.
My husband isn’t exempt from my delusions, either. It’s just that some* of the time, he’s too passed out to hear them.
*Disclaimer: He does get up and help quite a bit. I just despise how easily he can fall back asleep.
Like when I’m in the middle of a breastfeeding marathon at 2 a.m. and I sneer at the back of his peaceful, sleeping head, “How NICE it is that you don’t have boobs!”
I mean, really, it is nice that he doesn’t have boobs, because…weird, but still.
Or when he can easily tune out the sound of our screaming toddler during an attempt at “crying it out,” all the while dreaming of golf courses and running half-marathons and fishing lures, and I’m awake trying to shove an entire pillow into my ear canal to block the sound, I say things like, “I don’t understand WHY having a job that involves SAVING PEOPLE’S LIVES requires you to sleep more than me!”
Or “The DOCTORS on GREY’S ANATOMY don’t need that much sleep!”
But after some time to wake up, a Starbucks (or two), some online shopping, and some personal reflection, I realize the silliness in my words and strive to make up for them the rest of the day by not rolling my eyes when someone wants a meal again.
So, to my girls and my husband, I’m sorry for the things I said when I was tired.
But for the things I said when I was hungry? That’s for another day.
