Three Tiny Tyrants
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As one of the imprisoned, sleep is a rare commodity not often bestowed upon me. So rare, in fact, that although I "know" what sleep is, I sometimes forget the word and that it applies to me. While gone are the never ending nights of being up 8-10 times to feed someone through the haze of a half functioning brain, not a night goes by that one of the tyrants doesn't vomit; attempt to vomit; need water; have a nightmare; lose a blanket; lose a stuffy; get tangled in the sheets and/or any other assortment of troubles that causes them to demand my immediate attention between the hours of midnight and 6 a.m. Often, my sleep deprived brain cannot fathom the walk back to my bedroom so I just remain in the tyrants' room, spreading out on the 1-2 feet of extra space in one of the single beds, occasionally finding a large stuffy or discarded clothing to cushion my head while someone repeatedly kicks me in the chest and face as they sleep like an egg beater next to me.
As I opened my eyes this morning, Tiny's face was about six inches from my own, tapping my forehead with a finger as he chanted, "Wake up. Wake up. Wake up." Groggily, I struggled to keep my eyes open as Little snored next to me, blissfully asleep and not subject to Tiny's preferred waking method. Fatal mistake #1: I told Tiny that it's not morning time yet to which he gleefully leaped out of bed and threw upon the shades to show me that light was indeed shining through the window, thus is WAS morning time. In the process of leaping across the beds, he landed next to Big who was humming a nonsensical tune. This turned into the first of many wrestling sessions of the day. Desperate to let Little, who is battling kennel cough for the thousandth time, continue to sleep, I forced myself from bed and ushered the two into the hallway. Fatal mistake #2: I forgot to grab Big's blue blanket before quietly exiting the room. Blue blanket is Big's necessary accessory at all times, particularly in the morning. As I turned to try to sneak back inside, Tiny and Big yelped and tumbled down the hallway, turning on the hallway light in the process and awakening the slumbering Little. Upon hearing his brothers' battle cries, Little was wide awake and refused to go back to sleep. In between barking coughs, he whinily demanded that I carry him down the hallway to which I obliged. As we walked and stepped over the rolling bodies of Tiny and Big, Little informed me that he wanted to be the first to pee. Tiny, never one to shy away from a challenge, raced past us into the bathroom, to the great dismay of Little, who immediately melted down into a puddle of Little tears. I tried to console him by telling him that he could at least go before Big, but that was no consolation prize. Second place is the first loser. Hysterically crying over the lost opportunity to urinate first, I carried his writhing body down the stairs, hoping The Enforcer remembered his ear plugs this morning. For twenty minutes, Little adamantly refused to pee, claiming he was "never going to pee again!" Worried that his bladder couldn't hold out for much longer, I desperately searched my fuzzy brain for something that would convince him to go. Finally, landing on my friend, the television, I convinced Little that he could pick our morning show, if only he would go to the bathroom first. Tiny, hearing this, launched into a diatribe about the unfairness of it all: Little picking the show. Narrowing my eyes at him, I informed him that it was his doing that caused the drama and that Little would be picking whatever show he wanted so long as he stopped crying over the bathroom situation and actually used the bathroom. Tiny, privy to my patience under sleep deprivation conditions, knew when to retreat from battle. As we settled on the couch, Little now calm but still barking like a seal, I saw my opportunity for extra shut eye and jumped on it. Until, four minutes into the show, I felt something sharp, like a pointy finger, poking my cheek and heard...."Can we have our milk now?"
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AuthorAnna Christine is a working mother of three boys. She is a teacher, writer, learner, and a fierce advocate for inclusion. Writing is her catharsis for the tough days of parenting. Her writing has appeared on ScaryMommy: Archives
January 2019
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