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| WHAT A TIME TO BE ALIVE!!!! |
Yesterday was a strange day for me. I drank five cups of coffee, folded two towels while Greta napped for six minutes, and ordered Cheeto finger gloves from Amazon. So yeah, never mind--- it was actually a pretty typical day.
I've never experienced this little sleep in my life. Greta is up every two to three hours for absolutely no understandable reason. Then there's Millie with her strange interests. First it was sharks; next the Titanic. Now, since discovering her Uncle Craig is a lawyer, she's into last wills and testaments. I'm drinking scalding hot coffee as fast as it will go down while Greta throws a sleep-deprived tantrum and Millie keeps asking if she can have my makeup when I die. "Sure!" I shout. "Take it all!"
Annoyingly, my sister's son, Will, sleeps more than the two-toed sloth. I look wistfully out my window down the street to her house and wonder what it's like to be her in that big fluffy bed, watching 90 Day Fiancé, when a text pings my phone. It's from the well-rested sister. "William's been napping for almost four hours. Do you think I should wake him up? If he naps too much longer, he'll only sleep for thirteen hours tonight." (insert middle finger emoji)
The husband is out of town. Again. Although this gives me the advantage of stretching out in bed like an overweight starfish, it also makes menial tasks seem impossible.
My glorious shower at home could house a hippopotamus, yet here I am, stuffed in the communal showers at the YMCA so that I can lather my head in peace while Greta plays in their nursery. Minus the beer bottle next to my loofah, it's like I'm back in the college dorms again.
"Shower while she naps," you're probably thinking. Oh, but dear reader, that wouldn't give the water enough time to get warm.
Fed up, we finally went and had a sleep study performed. That was fun!!!!
The results were pretty much what I expected. She has sleep-disordered breathing patterns and would most likely benefit from a tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy. I know this seems like no big deal to you serotonin-balanced individuals, but the idea of my two-year-old going under the knife gives me cold sweats. I need time to think and prepare and up my Prozac and maybe even travel to Rome to pray at St. Peter's Basilica. OCD thrives on uncertainty, and I don't like giving up control unless I can be 100% guaranteed of the results. My good friend Jeff will be her surgeon, so this gives me great comfort, but on the other hand, I'm not yet acquainted with the anesthesiologist or the nurse who will bring her slushies. What if she has an allergy to blue raspberry?
So next up, we need to pick a date for the operation. While I'm leaning towards September 2027, my husband prefers this afternoon. Maybe I need to just bite the bullet and put it on the calendar. Or better yet, maybe I just need to sleep on it. (insert rolling on the floor laughing emoji)
