While we were walking along the greenway, we heard a bicycle whizzing up behind us (a common occurance on this trail), and as he approached, the biker said, “On your left, Ladies!”
And then I said to A. “Huh. He just called you a lady.”
So the not smoking thing is going GREAT. Greater than great. A. has made it through situations (drinks, backyard fire pit, bars, band practice) I would never have dreamed he could make it through, and has remained his funny, easygoing self instead of morphing into a six-headed monster throughout the process. And because of that, I have been extra-strong as well. It’s been over two weeks and I haven’t wanted to hurt anyone or crawl into a corner and die, so that’s a plus. And an even bigger plus is that I haven’t really wanted to smoke. It’s only a taste of success and I realize that, but yum.
This work, this work! There is such bullshit running unchecked! As in, my boss totally did a no-call no-show on Friday and FLAT OUT LIED to me about it. MY BOSS. Hello, we are being led by a tenth-grader.
So, we haven’t been sleeping well at our house, for a few reasons. Weather, for one. Tennessee has had some dramatic nights in the sky as of late, with wind and lightning and slapping rain, bright red radar screens on the news and devastating photos the morning after. Even if we could sleep through it, the big dog does not and he’s a quivering, drooling, pacing mess before, during, and after the storm. And he totally wants to plant his stinky ass in YOUR bed until the sky gets quiet.
Bird has not been sleeping well, either, and when Bird doesn’t sleep well, nobody sleeps well. She’s clingy, on the verge of a winter cold and still staving it off, but barely. One of us spends at least half the night mashed into her twin-sized bed with her while she flops and clings and whines and pops up in the middle of the night fully awake and wanting to change her clothes. We’ve got to make another game plan– I haven’t woken up next to my husband in several days.
I also have not been sleeping well, with a tense body and a zillion things on my mind that keep my wheels whirring in the dark. I’m a champion sleeper, and In my life, not being able to sleep is the equivalent of not being able to enjoy, say, cheesecake. It’s absurd.
And the fact that much of my unwelcome wakefulness is related to my work frustration makes me even more angry. I have plenty of important things to worry about, but for some reason I can’t let this one go.
Because the big things really are big and they bust open a hole so big in the fence of my brain that all of the smaller worries can slither in after them and there is no stopping it: No money in the bank or in the pocket or anywhere I can see it, Grandpa in intensive care with ilius and a MRSA infection, other Grandfather in his final days with family and hospice hovering close by, dad having prostate surgery to remove stage 2 cancerous spot on Thursday, Mom shouldering all of this worry, child not sleeping, immense job dissatisfaction, looming exam, dog with mystery hairless patch on bum, attic needing insulation, car tags needing renewing, giving up cheese for lent (stupid), clogged sink in upstairs bathroom, out of tomatoes, no clean underwear, and on and on like this until I find myself drilling down to a point of lying in the dark and obsessing about whether or not the dogs are going to ruin the garden I have not yet planted, purchased, or planned.
Welcome, it’s scary and disorganized in here. And there aren’t any cigarettes, so don’t ask.
Me: Ouch, Bird. You’re pulling my hair. I don’t like that.
Bird: I don’t care.
Okay, there’s a story behind that. A. was trying to get Bird back down to sleep night before last, and she was trying to lay on his face in the middle of a sleepless vacuum of time, and he was all, “no, Bird, you can’t lay on my face.” and she was all, “Daddy, I don’t like that when you say I can’t lay on your face,” and he was all, “I don’t care, you can’t lay on my face.”
The next morning they talked about their rough night and hurt feelings. Bird told A. that it hurt her feelings when he said he didn’t care. He said he was sorry, and that he was frustrated and tired. They kissed and snuggled made up.
But we’re still left with the occasional “I don’t care.” She throws it out there and looks at you like, “Holy shit, what’s going to happen next?” And I look at her like, “Holy shit, what do I say next?” And I have a whiz bang glimpse of the future where I am standing nose to nose with an adolescent Bird and I have to just snap out of it already and enjoy that I have to try not to laugh now because man alive, it is so not going to be funny when she is thirteen, no sir.
Bird: (running laps through the house as we’re trying to cook dinner and have some semblance of a conversation) POOPOOPOOPOOPOOPOOPOOPOOPOOOOPOOPOOPOOPOOMOUSE!!!
A: Hey Bird, I think it’s time to call your parents and tell them to come get you.
Just look at her, so cute.
So, A. shaved off his mustache. I think this is the closest he’s come to psychosis while taking Chantix. He started out trimming his beard, and I got in the shower, and when I got out he was sporting a mean fu manchu. The fu was quickly removed, but the redneck photo is freaking priceless. I am fortunate to have married a man so weird and lovable.