Sleep Deprivation Experiment: Day 1,346

Maybe it only seems like it's been that long since I had a full night's sleep. There must have been a few nights somewhere in between Simon learning to sleep through the night (usually) and me having another adorable parasite inside me messing up my sleep, but I don't remember them. It certainly feels like it's been too many years since I really felt well-rested... actually, I don't remember what that feels like. Is it good? Someone remind me, please!

Ike is now 1 year, 2 months and 12 days old, and I still can't fill in that annoying little space in his baby book that says, "I first slept through the night on ___________". Every parenting book I've read clearly states that a normal, healthy baby has no physical need to be up two or three (or hey, even one!) times a night for bottle or boobage, but here we are. I've tried going in and rocking him without feeding him- it just pisses him off, and buying new jammies after he's hulked himself right out of them was just getting too expensive. I've tried letting him cry; the problem is that he doesn't stop and go back to sleep like he's supposed to- not within the time I'm willing to let him cry, anyway. Also, here's always the problem of his crying waking his big brother up, too- and he's not a great sleeper himself. Between the two restless wonders over there, there have been recent nights when I was up 5 times between 10 (when Simon finally quits playing in his room and goes to sleep) and 6:15 a.m. (when Ike wakes up).

I'm convinced that the boys are actually secret agents of some evil researcher doing unethical feildwork in the field of sleep-deprivation.

So where does this leave us in the morning? On a fast train to Crankyland, that's where it leaves us. I don't want to get out of bed- in fact, I have trouble even waking up a lot of mornings, never mind rolling over until I land on the floor. Ike generally wakes up in a good mood, but then, he's probably been asleep for at least 11 hours- and he'll be having a nap soon. Simon will be up by then, though, a three-year old running on 9 hours' sleep who almost never naps anymore, ready to whine the morning away:

"Mommeeeee! I need appa-JOOOOS!"

"My Ta! Mommy, get me my Ta! ... Noooo, you get it! I'm too tiiiired!"

"I want Smannies for breffast!" (Smarties-and no, he didn't get them)

Case in point: at this moment, Simon is sitting on the couch. His juice is on the table, exactly 2 steps away from him. He wants me to get his juice for him, because "I can't weeeeech it! I can't get it- you getit, I'm so tired*!" I don't think so.

And me? I'm more than a little cranky, too. I have very little patience for whining any time, but even less when I haven't had more than 2 hours' uninterrupted sleep in a week.

But enough of my bitching. I have to go make some waffles for this kid before his head explodes.



*And no, I have no idea where he heard the phrase "I'm so tired"- certainly not from me... *ahem*

*shudder*

I can't have another night like Wednesday night. A regular "bad" night for me involves not only Simon having a night terror and ending up on the couch (plus Ike's normal wakings), but also some weird, WEIRD dreams- usually brought on by me forgetting to take my pills until almost bedtime. Those things mess with my head.

This wasn't a normal "bad" night. Even with Simon sleeping just fine, the dreams I had took that night way beyond bad. "Bad" became a smudge on the horizon.

I can't tell you what the dreams were about- it's not that I can't remember, I just can't talk about it. Nothing like normal nightmares, where something bad happens to you or the people you love- we weren't even in these ones. Lots of horrible things happening to people- and I couldn't wake up. The first time Ike woke up, I not only didn't hear him, I also didn't wake up (or move) when AJ came into the room. Or when he talked to me. Or when he kicked the bed... I think I scared him.

Sometimes getting up once is enough to get out of that weird, deep dream-state, but not that night. As soon as I was back in bed, it started again, and it didn't seem like I got a break until AJ came to bed at 2:00- I didn't get any rest, anyway. I was so relieved when he came to bed; I woke up coated in sweat, shaking, but at least I was awake. I went to the bathroom and flicked the light on to try to wake up even more, had a drink of water, and went back to bed. I was still pretty shaky, and I begged AJ to help me remember to take my pills earlier in the day.

I don't know why I forget. Part of it's lack of visual cues- I can't keep my pill box on the kitchen counter (where I would see it when I have my tea, the most logical time to get all medicated up) because Simon will see it there, and he seems to think that all pills are "buyamins" and will taste like the crunchy little Flintstones he gets every day (when he reminds me). Oten when I'm in my own bathroom and I see that little SMTWTFS box, I haven't eaten anything recently, which I need to do before I take the pills.

So my wonderful husband, as soon as I asked for help, set his watch for 2:00 every afternoon so he can call and make sure I've taken my medications. One of these days I'll get my own watch, but this is good for now.

I remembered yesterday... but I was still scared to fall asleep last night.

WARNING

It is not safe to sleep around me. The exception to this would be, of course, my children and their blessed snoozes- they can sleep all they want. Their sporadic slumber (or lack thereof) is, in fact, the reason the rest of you ARE NOT SAFE.

How can I put this nicely? When I see anyone sleeping peacefully and/or for extended periods ("extended" meaning more than 3 hours in a row), I want to wake them up. Sometimes violently.

Here's an example: Gus, a.k.a. "the Fat One." Gus is a champion sleeper, as all cats are. Here's the thing, though- while some other cat around here has the good sense to do it in the basement during the day where I can't see him, Gus drapes his ample self over the back of the couch, pools across the floor, or lounges on my bed:

Doesn't he just look so comfortable? So peaceful? So WELL-RESTED?!! This makes me hate him. It also makes me want to shove him off of whatever piece of furniture he's occupying or punch him in the furry noggin for being so mean and flaunting the fact that he can sleep whenever he wants to, thanks very much. You bastard.*

Cats the worst for this, because I need sleep so much more than they do. I try to be understanding of how Gus' busy eating/pooping/bathing schedule must exhaust him, but I have very little sympathy for him. Even people who need sleep are not completely safe, however. My poor husband might have worked until 3 in the morning, but when I go into the bedroom at noon and he's still there in bed, I might sometimes get just a little bit jealous. It's not his fault his schedule allows him to sleep more than I can- or that my sleep is interrupted every few hours. Still, after a really bad night... mumblemumblemumble

Please note that I have never actually punched any innocent sleepers in the head. Nor have I kicked them in the kidneys, pushed them out of bed, or made a very loud noise and then run away. I just thought I'd warn you all that it could happen.

* Jerk sleeps a lot AND makes me write run-on sentences.

Riddle Me This:

How is it possible that Ike can go to bed (at 5:00, God help me!) and sleep through Simon running and playing and complaining about going to bed... but he manages to wake up at the sound of me slipping between the blankets in my bed?

It's uncanny. Much like the X-Men, but less cool, and with a disappointing lack of Hugh Jackman and/or James Marsden.

A Comb and a Brush, and a Brain Made of Mush

I was going to write something nice for you today, I really was. I even put some thought into it, if you can believe that. But you, my friend, are out of luck.

We had another one of those nights that leaves what's left of my brain in a puddle of mush, sloshing around in the lower half of my cranium; the top half, incedentally, is left empty, and the thoughts I manage to produce are getting distracted by the echo, so even they're not working for me. Echo! Echo! Echo!

So yeah, long night. Simon decided to stay up to keep me company until 10, because goodness knows I can't be left ALONE if AJ's at work. He finally went to bed (with his new friend "Blue," who was to be the topic of a far more coherent and entertaining post), I tidied up a bit, got changed, climbed into bed, and- "WAAAAAHHHHH!!!"

...and spent the next 30 minutes trying to get Ike back to sleep. No, not back to sleep- he was perfectly happy to sleep with his dear little noggin resting on my chest while I sat in the rocking chair. The problem was getting him to stay asleep when I had the audacity, the sheer nerve, to put him down. I even tried taking him to bed with me, forgetting that he's a BIG boy now, being one and all, and he's not into that anymore.

So then I rocked him again and cried because he's growing up, and we won't have these cuddly times forever, you know! I desperately tried to press that moment into my brain while simultaneously losing my mind from exhaustion. Perverse? Perhaps.

So then I put him down, he cried, I left, and he settled down at last. I closed my eyes, and AJ came home. I muttered several things at him, none of which I can remember now (and which almost certainly didn't make sense, anyway), and fell asleep. Some time later, just before AJ came to bed, Ike started crying again. He had a bottle, and we all went to sleep. Until Simon woke up screaming for the third night in a row. He went back to sleep on the couch, and I went back to bed. Again.

After that, it was smooooooth sailing- Ike was only up one more time before he woke up for the day at 5-something, bright and cheerful. "Hi, Mommy! I had a FAN-STINKING-TASTIC night! What's wrong? Why are you crying? Silly Mommy!"

So yeah, me and my brain of mush are just going to have to save that good post for another day. You know, whatever it was that I was thinking about. I can't remember.

I Can't Brain Anymore. I Have The Dumb.

No one told me that when the doctors cut Simon out of me that they'd also be removing (or at least mangling) parts of my brain. I figured the damage was done at that point, but it seems that there was still work to be done with the next child, because I'm sure they helped themselves to another chunk of my cerebrum (and possibly cerebellum- doesn't that sound like a pretty flower? Cerebellum Odorificus) when Ike was born. I have lost my mind, folks, and I blame the doctors. It was a c-section lobotomy.

What other explanation is there? OK, yes, there's the lack of sleep. Sometimes an extreme lack of sleep. But this goes far, far beyond that, my friend- I've been sleep deprived before, and while it may have actually made me cry sometimes, I still remained reasonably sane.*

Now? Now I actually scare myself sometimes. Last week I got Simon's sippy cup (“Appajoos PWEEEEEASE, MOMMEEEE!”), opened the lid, got the apple juice out of the fridge- and poured it into my tea. There was also a time, not so very long ago, when we couldn't find the juice anywhere. AJ found it, bless him- it was in the cupboard next to the popcorn. Simon had just learned to open the fridge that week, and I think I convinced AJ that it was Simon who had put the juice in the cupboard. Oh, that silly little rascal! What a kid... heh, heh... ahem.

You know when you walk into a room and forget for a second why you're there? That happens to me 15 times a day, and it's not just for a second. Time ticks by as I stand there, staring off into space, wondering exactly what it was I needed from the bathroom. Possibly drooling, I don't know. Far too often I'll have to go back to the room I just left to try to jog my memory- if I can remember what room I just came from.

So OK, my memory sucks, but that's not all. Things that used to be little problems have escalated into major malfunctions, and it's embarrassing. I've never been graceful, but now I'm running into furniture, walls, pets and people on an alarmingly regular basis. The cats are pissed, I'll tell you that. I have little to no concept of where my limbs are on space at any given time. I'm pretty sure my arms aren't usually floating and waving about over my head (or are they? You'd tell me, right?) but it's also not like I'm thinking, 'you know, my ass and that table could totally occupy the same space! At the same TIME!' I just couldn't keep track of my ass is all.

I used to forget words occasionally and sometimes got stuck in the middle of a sentence; now I'll get half-way through expressing a thought and just trail off... those thought thingers are tough to hang on to these days. Slippery buggers, they be.

I could go on, but I'm actually afraid to. Also, I can't remember what I was going to say. Dangit.

So that's my theory, anyway- those nasty doctors snuck in a lobotomy (or two) when they were supposed to be birfin' mah bebbies. It's the most reasonable explanation, I think. Am contemplating lawsuit. Goodnight, folks.


*However, the baseline measurement for this wasn't exactly what you'd call normal. “Sane” is a relative term.