Sleeping together

If you know me very well you may know I have a problem sleeping with my husband.  This was so embarrassing to me as I newlywed I often searched for newlyweds with a similar issue.  Miserly loves company and all that.  I just couldn't accept that I was alone in my suffering.  Several times, however, I was greeted with odd stares and nervous giggles as I tried to explain how little sleep you get when you're married.  My anguish was often attributed to some kind of extended foreplay or infinitely long pillow talks.  Little did they know it was neither of those typical marital perks that were the cause of my insomnia.

I learned within hours of making vows, cutting cake, and stealing a secret first dance in the hall at our reception that I could not sleep with my husband.  On our first night home we cuddled up under the covers, and I listened to Paul drift off within minutes.  I admired his sweet wheezes and smiled at the wedding band on his left ring finger.  I could feel the exhaustion from the excitement and activities of the day weighing down my body, so I took one last glance at my new husband and laid my head against his chest.  I closed my eyes and waited for sleep to take me.  It did not.  Instead of sleep, I was educated by the sandman.

In the next two hours I learned I couldn't not breathe if my head was on his chest because I would subconsciously try to sync my own breath with his asthmatic puffs.  I discovered I had an irrational fear of waking my extremely deep-sleeping husband which made shifting to get comfortable out of the question.  I noticed that my husband was cuddly and came to the unfortunate conclusion that I could not sleep while being touched.  I mean, like, at all.  On the off chance I managed to escape all of these undesirables, I was instead accosted by hot morning breath or the smell of Axe deodorant, which let me know strong smells wake me up.  Fantastic.

For months I struggled, cuddled, and fought my general fatigue until a glorious night in Disneyland brought me some relief.  The giant king size bed was better than any roller coaster or attraction because there, in the expanse of mattress, I escaped my husband's grasps and found some much needed rest.  The dawn brought a perky Kayla and a disgruntled Paul.  When I expressed my infatuation for the bed he muttered about it being too big and not being able to find me.  Before I could stop it, a smile spread across my face.  Perfect.

However, we had to leave the bed behind in sunny Anaheim, and I was back to my sleepless routine.  Rarely a night passed that I was not awakened to an elbow in the eye, an arm around my waste or, heaven forbid, a deep sleep sigh of caustic fumes blown in my direction.  I hoped, prayed, pleaded, and assumed that time would heal me of my nightly torment.  Eventually I just had to start sleeping through it, right?





Fast forward to the present day, five years later:

After my children are tucked in their beds for the night I like to collapse on my squeaky mattress, nestle my face into my cool pillow, and adjust my limbs until I find that sweet, sweet spot of incomparable comfort.  You know what I'm talking about.  The one position of ecstasy that pulls you rapidly into dreamland.  However, it is usually that very moment that my lips remind me they are a gazelle in the Sahara Desert, and just out of my reach is a chapstick waterhole.  I then find myself at a crossroads.  Down one path is greasy, appeased lips and a risk of undoing all the effort put into finding that perfect, perfect spot.  Down the other path is comfort, sleep, and waking up with lips that appear to have gotten in a bat'leth fight with an enraged Klingon.  The path I usually choose is the later because at the end of a long day, full-body comfort is my one true desire.  That and sleep, of course.

Then, after finishing an episode of Sherlock, in shuffles the man in all his nerdy glory.  He now knows I cannot sleep whilst being touched so he gives me a quick peck on the cheek before settling in on the opposite side of the bed.  He is consciously thoughtful but subconsciously deviant.  In a matter of minutes sleep takes him, and he begins his trek across the mattress in search of a warm body.  Soon he finds me in that sweet, sweet melted position, and he rolls over to face me.  The smell of sleeping breath brings me out of a heavenly dream to a dark and stinky reality.  I am at a new crossroads.  Hold down the fort and maintain my position while I lying awake in olfactory torment, or lose that perfect comfort with a possibility of more zzzZZZzzzs.  I die a little inside as I roll away from the man in my bed and my warm outline in the sheets.  Since I've already been forced to move I think, might as well put on that chapstick.

Maybe in ten years we can afford a king size mattress.  Until then, I will remain coverless and sleepless with my pillow on my nightstand.

The beast

There's a beast in my house.  She is angry, mean, unsympathetic, and I think she smells a little bit like tacos, and we all know that's a smell that is only appetizing on food.  She follows me around everywhere I go, perched on my shoulder like a bird.  Only, she not a delicate dove.  This beast is more like an ostrich, invading every inch of my personal space with gangly legs wrapped around my chest, squeezing away my breath.  Her enormous body weighs down my slumping shoulders, and there is not a moment of the day when I'm not acutely aware of the heaviness. My beast of burden. She's only visible to my eyes and a load only I can bear.

Some days this corpulent monster overpowers me, and I open my mouth to scream for help.  However, when my lips part, feathers fill the cavity and I begin to suffocate a little.  I fight for air and a savior to destroy this leech, but I just know somehow that if I was really able to express the thoughts. . . the feelings this beast drills into my mind, I would be misunderstood and judged.  After all, no one can see her but me.  This is a demon I must face alone.

So, trapped in a cage of solitude, I wrestle the beast.  Some days I fight with passion and perseverance in the name of family and motherhood.  But mostly I feel devoid of passion and tired of battle.  This creature has been ignored, conversed with, pushed, screamed at, and probably fallen asleep on because exhaustion dictates my life.  I've even coddled it, afraid of who I might be without the ghastly harpy.  You see, it's been so long since I've seen just myself in the mirror that I've all but forgotten what I look like.  And who I am.  None of these tactics, however, have made the beast any smaller.  She's actually growing.

She's a jealous thing, to add to her list of deplorable qualities, and it affects my relationships.  I struggle to feel joy or compassion and often feel so hallow I can't connect with people like I once did effortlessly.  When my husband comes home from work and all I want is to smother him in love and good food, the beast tightens her grip and almost forces the curtness that comes spewing from my mouth.  Annie and Sam also fall victim to my uncontrollable moods.  Whether it is staring at them blankly or locking myself in my room so I can scream in a pillow while that horrid monster pecks at my skull, they watch with horrified and confused glances.  And for my sweet Sam, this is the only mother he's ever known.  That thought is painful to the point of nauseam. No matter how hard I try to smile at his bright eyes and pretend that I'm enjoying the task of care-giving, deep inside that tiny body is the baby sensor which warns him of my disconnect.  However, in fleeting moments he stares past me, and I think he may actually be able to see this invisible beast.  After all, she was born on the same day as he.

And her name is Postpartum Depression.

Cake hate

My mission was a lemon dessert for the Hatchett Family Easter Dinner.  My dessert of choice was cake.  I envisioned the round contour of the top and the sleek, straight sides plunging toward a etched glass pedestal.  The cake would be moist and light, scented with lemon zest and love.  The filling would be strawberry, tangy and sweet, complimenting the delicate ribbons of lemon cream cheese frosting piped so beautifully around the borders of the cake.  Pastel spotted eggs would line the border to complete the work of art.

At least, that's what I wanted to make.  Instead, I made this:

All was going well until I began to stack the cake and it crumbled in my hands.  I tried to piece it back together and thought my repair attempt was successful, but when I began to dirty ice the sides of the cake the segments of the middle layer began to separate.  It was like watching a plate tectonics horror film.  The more I frosted, the more cake chucks drifted apart while gooey strawberry lava oozed out from the depths of the confection.  In my anger, I picked it up and screamed, "I'm so mad I'm going the throw this on the floor!"  And I was, had Paul not rushed to my side and snatched the cake from my trembling hands.

Cake in the garbage

I think next time I'll stick to cupcakes. . .

Me covered in frosting

Questions

My little Andrea has always been a talkative girl.  She babbled constantly as a baby, prattled non-stop as a toddler, and now that she's preschool age she's a bundle of chatty energy.  She's never been able to do anything without narrating her actions.  If I'm in the kitchen cooking dinner, this is what I listen to:

"Mommy!  I have to go potty!  Wow, I had to go really bad.  I can wipe all by myself.  Flush, and wash, and be on your way.  Oh!  Soap.  Soapy bubbles.  Turn off the water.  Wasting water is a bad choice.  Dry dry hands.  No, Sammy!  You can't come in here.  Mom!  Sam is trying to crawl in the bathroom.  It's okay I can get him out.  Come here, Sam.  Do you want to play with me?  You can play with my doll if you want.  Just don't slobber on my bear.  Mom!  Sam is standing.  MOM! Sam is sitting now.  Now he's crawling.  Mom!  I'm going to watch a show.  A-N-N-I-E.  That spells Annie.  That's my name, Sam.  Your name is Samuel Paul Rowberry.  Bear's name is Bear Evert Rowberry.  Mom!  I'm going to watch Seasame Street.  Mom!  Look, it's Elmo.  Mommy!  He's coloring.  He's singing a song, Mom.  MOMMY!  He has a fish!  I like that fish.  What's that fish's name?  MOM!  WHAT'S THAT FISHES NAME?"

If ever quiet, which is rare, I definitely know she's getting into trouble.

My older sister once asked me if the constant chatter bothered me, and I honestly answered that it doesn't.  I enjoy her little voice and am entertained by some of the wild things that come out of that mouth.  However, she has recently entered into a new phase.  I call it "the WHY phase."  It's pretty  self-explanatory.

She can no longer watch a movie and narrate.  Now I must watch Frozen with her while being bombarded by questions like I'm a murder suspect.

"Mom, why did their boat disappear?  Why are they in a picture?  Where is her sister?  Why is her hair like that?  Why is she cold?  Why is she singing?  Why is she talking to those duckies?  Why are they opening the gates?  What's a con-er-ation?  Why is she jumping on those couches?  Why is she wearing gloves?  I LOVE THIS MOVIE!  Why are they fighting?  Why is there a snowman?  Why are they running?  Why is it snowing?  Why is she so cold?  Why did she freeze her heart?  Why is she scared?  Why does she need a kiss?  Why is he putting out the fire?  Why is Olaf lighting the fire? Why does he have a sword?  Why is she so sad?  Why does she think her sister is dead?  Why did she punch him off the boat?"

I could go on, but I'm sure you get the picture.

Someone tell me this phase will be over soon.  I'm running out of patience and answers.

Crash

I remember the sneeze and then looking up at a red light.  My right foot jumped to the breaks as my arms gripped the steering wheel and braced for impact.  The thud of my blue car hitting a suburban unforgettably rang through my ears.  I don't recall the air bags deploying because my face was numb from their explosive power, but the smell, burnt and putrid, enveloped my senses.  I could feel wet beneath my nose and I reached up to touch what I expected to be blood and was surprised by what I found.  Snot.  From that distracting sneeze. I could hear my sons cries and my daughter began babbling in shock.  I whipped around to make sure she had kept her seat belt on. She had, thank heavens!  I began panting and panicking, shaking like a chihuahua.  If it weren't for that horrid smell, I might have not believed it was real.  I crashed.  I crashed the car with my babies in the back seat.

I remember crying.  I couldn't stop.  Through violent heaves and desperate sobs I kept repeating, "My babies!  My babies!"  Even though both we safe, unharmed, and quiet once I pulled them out of the car.  I was overwhelmed by guilt and shame, and the tears reflected the inner turmoil causing a great deal of nausea.  The other driver tried to comfort me and told me he wasn't mad or hurt.  But I was hurt and mad.  Hurt with dislocated ribs, bruises, and a busted lip, and mad at myself because, although I didn't crash on purpose, I was to blame.

The following days were difficult.  When my eyes would close the first thing I would see was the side of that tan suburban.  Then there was that thud.  I couldn't stop hearing that thud.  Andrea kept talking about it.  Hourly, I'd hear her telling bear about the sneeze, the crash, and my red teeth.  It pained me to hear, but I let her talk and process and cope.  Through all of her retellings I began to see immense bravery that surrounded my daughter like a protective armor.  She must have got that from her father.

I was not brave.  The thought of driving again sent me into a shaken and panicked state.  Even riding as a passenger was traumatic.  Every bump and flashing light turned me into a white-knuckled cling-on, gripping at the dash like it was my lifeline.  Sometimes I would cry, and Paul would softly reassure me.

Two days after the crash I knelt beside my daughter's bed and asked her to pray.  Unprompted, she began.  She thanked Heavenly Father for the things she loved: Grandma Gragraw, the supermarket, bear, vitamins.  Then she petitioned Him for help; not for herself, but for me.  She asked Him to help me remember Jesus and be calm.  As tears rolled down my cheeks she ended her pray with one final request: Help me take care of my mommy.  My daughter was not only brave, but wonderfully loving.  In that moment I knew I would be okay because I had faith in my Heavenly Father, and I had faith in Annie's faith.

When they are sleeping

Things I like to do when the children are sleeping:

-Use the bathroom ALONE.  No audience telling me how many squares I'm allowed to use or asking me questions I'd rather not answer.  ("Mommy?! Why are you bleeding?")

-Watch movies and shows that would otherwise scar my daughter. (Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Pirates of the Carribean, etc.) She's easily scared.

-Eat things I don't want to share.  I share food all day long.  If we have sandwiches for lunch, Andrea will eat hers an then come sit uncomfortably close to me and give my sandwich THE STAREDOWN.  Or if I peel an orange guess who eats most of it?  Not me.  If I get out an orange for me and an orange for her she will still beg for mine while her orange sits untouched on her plate. Look, kid.  You eat your food and I'll eat mine, kapeesh?

-Sew.  If I do this while the kids are asleep I avoid needles in the carpet because Andrea can't stand to leave them in the pin cushion.

-Shower, if I have the energy. Who knew showers could be so draining. He he he. See what I did there? Draining?  . . . . Moving on.

-Fold laundry.  Have you ever folded laundry with a little "helper" unfolding it faster than you can fold?  It's not fun.  I don't particularly enjoy folding laundry the first time, but the third time I have to fold the same shirt in one sitting it starts to mess with my head.  I can feel Psycho Mom emerging and hear illogical things spew from my mouth like "If you unfold that one more time I'm going to throw these clothes in the garbage!"  Don't ask me what I think will be accomplished by this idol threat, but to Phsycho Mom it makes perfect sense.

-Make phone calls.  I swear my children have a sixth sense that tells them my phone has turned on, and then all heck breaks loose.  Seriously, do ya'll have to start crying the moment I try to talk to the Netflix tech support people?!  Breathe, Kayla.  Breathe.

-Scoop other peoples dog poop out of my yard.  I wish I didn't have to do this, but I do and having to constantly remind the three year old to watch her step while I hold a bag of poop with the hand wrapped around the 8 month old doesn't exactly sound like a trip to IKEA, if ya catch what I'm throwing down.

Aside from a myriad of other chores that can be accomplished, the thing I desire more than anything in the world is to sleep when my children are sleeping.  Oh sleep.  Oh blessed, beloved sleep.  How I miss thee.

Rejuvenated

With my seven month old perched precariously on my hip, I did my morning rounds.  After a diaper change, it's a walk though the living room to pick up the dirty diaper and relocate the diaper bag.  On my way to the kitchen garbage I step on a small, plastic bear and mutter a made-up curse word.  I shift the baby and bend down to pick up the pokey offender while instructing my three year old to keep little bears out of the carpet.  I turn back toward the kitchen once more only to be distracted by a news story about a murder-suicide.  Sad.  The baby starts to paw and the poopy diaper which acts as a reminder of my mission.  I bounce him through the house until the cool tile floor greets and refreshes my step.  The diaper is discarded and my one free hand makes quick work of gathering breakfast dishes and piling them into the sink.  The three year old reminds me to give her vitamins and, after a one-handed struggle with a child-proof cap, the crunching of chalky tablets indicates the three year old is temporarily appeased.

I take to the stairs because above me laundry awaits.  It's Tuesday, which typically means I wash towels, but I sit the baby on the floor, handing him miscellaneous trinkets from near by, and start stripping the sheets off my bed.  After falling victim to a leaky diaper, the sheets cannot wait till my customary sheet-washing Thursday.  The seven month old sits sturdily and gums on a little penguin bucket until it is apparent by his cries he is bored and wishes to return to his regular perch on my hip.  I pick him up, gather my comforter in my free arm, and stuff it into the washing machine just outside my room.  Worried that it won't fit I contemplate a laundry mat, but the wiggly baby trying to flip himself upside down motivates me to give the blanket an extra shove.  I hear singing below.  Itsy Bitsy Spider.  Classic.  I hum along while I pin the fabric softener between my body the wall so I can remove the lid.  The tiny boy under my arm lurches for the bottle and scolds me for keeping it out of reach.  I laugh at his fit because his tiny puckered lip reminds me so much of his older sister.  We return downstairs and I spend a moment surveying the house, planing my next move in the game that is morning.

As I look out over my world I contemplate my life and feel blessed.  Not because it's perfect or glamorous or even particularly fun, but because it's beautiful, and because it's mine to captain.