Thursday, February 14, 2013

Awww snap

How have I never noticed it before?
All these years and I had no idea. In retrospect, I guess all the signs were pretty clear all along, but I never took the time to put the pieces together. Maybe I knew, but didn't want to believe it was true, ya know? But after a lot of thought and self-realization, I come to accept that I, Sofia Beer, am extremely uncool.

I really hurt my wrist today.
 It's better now, but for a while there, I was concerned. And I wish I could tell you that I twisted it by revving a motorcycle engine too ferociously. I wish I could tell you the reason I fell to the floor in agony clutching my blown out wrist was because I saved a Himalayan village child from an impending avalanche or because I was break dancing or shredding on my guitar or parachuting out of an airplane. But I can't. Today, I injured myself by snapping. Like, yeah, snapping my fingers. And it gets worse. The REASON I was snapping was because I had repeated the phrase "it's nap time" over and over so many times to my children as they completely ignored me, that the words kinda started to smoosh themselves together and I, trying to be cool and make my daughter laugh at my wittiness, declared, "it's not nap time, IT'S SNAP TIME!," followed by dorky snapping session, then wrist breaks from excessive nerdiness aaaand mommy down. I mean... really? No one even appreciated my pun- Avery stood over me as I was sprawled out on the carpet in agony and she shouted, "I don't like sleepingggg!!!" at my injured body.
So that happened.

And then I was thinking about all the other things I do that I thought made me cool but absolutely do not. Like my kickboxing classes at the gym. Ask me about it yesterday and I'd have all douche-ily been like, "yeah, I partake in a little Muay Thai from time to time, but my jam is ka-rat-ay... Watch out!," followed by a mock karate chop to showcase my talents and I suck. Because in reality, after some thought I've realized that in those classes I'm really just bouncing around in an air-conditioned room, surrounded by other dorky soccer moms, punching at the air and wiggling our butts while a club remix of an obnoxiously tame Adele song blares in the background. And as much as I hate to admit it, I'm no cooler than the Asain woman next to me who has less rhythm than a wet blanket. And actually, sadly, I'm one of the ten moms who can't do the jumping-in-place track because it feels like my bladder will completely fall out of my body whole if I hop one more time thanks to the magic that was childbirth. And let's be honest, regarding the whole "combat" thing, if someone really wanted to fight me, I'd be fucked. These classes have prepared me with absolutely zero real life fighting skills. I'd be knocked out before I could finish my shuffle-right-back-kick-front-kick combo. Unless the person who wanted to fight would rather have a battle to see who could do the most consecutive high knees. Then I'd have a shot. Even though I might pee myself. See?? Uncool. Not to mention the whole freakishly weak wrist thing.

I also tried to write a really meaningful Valentine's Day card to my husband. I set out with intention of making my husband sob with my moving, deep, raw, and loving words, but instead, ended up with a rambling note about my appreciation for him not leaving me when I got really fat with my first pregnancy. So, I tried to over-compensate for the stupid inside with a pretty outside...

Not very smooth. Ever.

Anyway, happy Valentine's Day. Hope you all are having an awesome, super cool day, and I hope to god you haven't eaten as much chocolate as I have. 


Saturday, February 9, 2013

There's a nap for that

I wake up each morning- let me start over. I am catapulted into jarring consciousness from dead sleeplessness each *debatably* morning but probably night and have high hopes for myself. First I assess the whole energy situation, and after seventeen cups of coffee, feel confident that I've got the drive to do it. I say to myself, "Self, today, when the kids assume their napping positions, you will mop the floors and completely prep dinner and scrub the floor boards, bathe the dogs, write fourteen blog posts and climb Everest. You will squeeze productivity out of every invaluable minute those children are not demanding every ounce of your physical and mental capabilities." And this is the time of the day where I set out to do everything that I need to do and it's actually, if planned properly, not unrealistic! I can probably utilize the two hours or so wisely and make a very big dent on satisfying my neuroticism. Well, ok, I could do everything except maybe the dog bath part. I don't do dog hair. I just... don't.

So we go about our day. Per the routine, we go to the gym, and depending on which day it is, I drop off and then immediately pick up Avery from school (which is exactly what half day preschool feels like), then we will all run some errands, come home, I'll make the kids and myself lunch, then we will all eat while they totally zomb out (like "zombie"? "Zomb"? New phrase- it'll catch on) to one of their shows. While I clean the lunchtime dishes is about the time when I take a read on the state of the kids' sleepiness. Is Landon punching Avery in the head yet? Yup! He sure is! Nap time! And we're off.

Throughout our trek up the stairs I organize my plan of attack on my "list". I decide, perhaps, that I'll clean the upstairs toilets after the first load of towels has been started in the wash. Or maybe I'll decide to dust the blinds after I vacuum the couch but before I give the dogs a bath. Just kidding- still not touching the dogs.

Yay! We've made it upstairs! Landon goes down without a hitch, though Avery always takes quite a bit of begging and bribing because, well, frankly she's been ready to give up the nap for like 40-something months but it doesn't affect her nightsleep either with or without the glorious midday snooze and, ummm, don't judge me? Anyway, they're both knocked out. And it's at this moment when it happens.

At this moment, what happens is, the house reaches a level of stillness and silence that has never existed in the history of the world. I can't. Move. I can't think about anything but closing my eyes. Through heavy eyelids, things that were once blaring reminders of my duties are now beginning to look only like sleep related things. The piles of laundry start to look like plush, soft clouds and my filthy dogs are fuzzy white sheep repeatedly jumping over them. All my limbs are seemingly submerged in quicksand and uncontrollably I'm heading in one direction and one direction only. I'm a moth and my bed is the brightest lightbulb hanging on a patio on the darkest night of all time. I have no choice. There is no other viable option for me. The words "chores" and "snores" start to sound eerily similar to me, and in my confused state I can't quite remember which if the two I needed to get done.
Then I'm out.
 Seriously. I pass out every time. Sometimes I don't even make it to my bed. One time I woke up on the floor in my closet completely unaware of how I got there. It's sad but I guess that's what four years and three months of shitty sleep will do. What's even sadder is that I have been convinced that I have hidden this from my husband and hidden it well. Truthfully I'm embarrassed about it. Sometimes, during my secret naps, my husband will have to unexpectedly return home and work from our home office. And in the past, when that unearthly silence has been broken by his arrival, I would frantically jump out of bed from deep sleep, and start throwing clothes around the room or just grab a bottle of Windex and begin spraying something, anything (is that a wall?), in my slumbering haze, sleep lines from my pillow still embedded all over my face. Sometimes I would just run to the bathroom and flush the toilet or turn on the shower or loudly knock something over in an attempt to deter him from suspecting that I was pretty much dead a minute prior.
Anyway, a couple days ago, Troy came home during my the kids' naptime, and, as he walked in, I so sleepily and sloppily grabbed the unplugged vacuum with my hair tangled and mascara smudged while blindly pushing the machine in some sort of direction that he just gave up and asked, "how was your nap today? You're seriously so weird." Just like that! And after all these years, I've been exposed and I think he's known it all along! Whatever. Being a slave to two midget dictators twenty four hours a day is exhausting. Hearing a blaring, "MAMA!!!!" coming from, definitely, one room and sometimes two rooms, multiple times every night is wearing.

So what I'm trying to say is, between the afternoon hours of 1:00 and 3:30 in the Beer household has officially been deemed "daily nap time". Mark it on your calendars, set your alarms, alert the local news, and someone, for the love of Christ, PLEASE tell the UPS guy.