I can't sleep anymore. Matthew has been waking up nearly every hour each night for the last couple of weeks. We suspect he might be teething, though he doesn't seem to be in pain; he's just uncomfortable enough that he wakes up, all night long.
You will suggest a nap. Yes, I should nap with the baby. I have tried, because it is the sensible course of action, and I am, after all, exhausted. The problem is I simply do not nap. I can't. I've never been an awesome sleeper: I always wonder what the hell I'm missing while I'm down for the count. But napping, during the day, has always made me feel like I'm wasting my life; I feel sloth-like. I need to change my attitude. I need it more than anything right now.
Compounding my problem is that I don't fall asleep easily, and, I am in a high-alert anticipation mode for Matthew's wake-up cries at night. So, I putz with Facebook and Twitter on my phone and/or stare at the ceiling, thinking, thinking, thinking, of all the things I should do, or could do differently, or can't do because I don't have enough free time. By time all of the activity of my online community ceases, Steve has gotten comfortable on the same pillow where I rest my head, and begins farting, snoring, pulling my hair, and kicking me. I should move him, but he gets cranky when disturbed. Additionally, the sleeping Glen turns into a raging grizzle bear when his slumber is disrupted, especially when the disturbance has anything to do with an animal in our care. So, I let Steve slide, even though I'm sure there are no karmic points in it for me, for getting Stevie's back; his farting, snoring, kicking, hair-pulling back. I am simply an idiot with insomnia.
You will suggest some sleep-inducing techniques. I welcome them, since I have what the Buddhists call "The Monkey Mind," the uncontrollably restless brain. I hate most of the terms the yogis and Buddhists use in their disciplines; in fact, part of the reason I can't do yoga is because I laugh at the names of the positions. I am an immature, Beavis-and-Butt-head-like idiot. But the Monkey Mind suits my condition: I'm not thinking of anything deep; I'm not curing cancer, or poverty; I'm not coming up with scientific theory; I'm not trying to figure out how to make more money. Hell, I'm not even examining my life for regrets, for the most part. I've just got a ceaseless to-do list running in my head.
Some of last night's highlights
(Sorry, Glen, that you have to find out this way, about some of it):
I need to get the reciprocating saw out of the basement and prune the shit out of that shrub on the side of the property with the dead limbs. But only if no one else is watching so they can't make fun of me. Once finished with shrub on side of the house, I will dismantle the dead magnolia tree in our backyard. Which makes me sad, because it shouldn't have died. Maybe that's why I hate looking at it so much.
Those are the only tasks that involve the use of power tools, but not the only tasks that pertain to the yard. There's SO much to do out there. I almost never make it out front at all, because the backyard is SO close to reaching that "Ah, this is IT" point. Or at least it was, until the neighbor chopped down the (admittedly mostly nuisance) mulberry tree that straddled our properties. I have a load of shade-loving plants that are now burning along that strip, and I need to figure out what to do with them. We also lost an oak tree in the other corner of the yard, the absence of which is causing a lovely hydrangea shrub to get a little crispy. And then, there's that dead magnolia I mentioned. I think a lot about trees, actually: how to grow 'em quick, or what sort of reasonably attractive structure we should build/hang to save the once shady flora in my yard until we can buy or grow a tree big enough to do the job.
As much as I love trees, I am not a fan of grass. I have worked diligently over these last few years to eradicate it from my yard, mostly to discourage the local entrepreneurial lawnmowers from bugging the shit out of me every day, by asking if they can mow my lawn, even though paying them $8 a pop would probably have been more cost effective than what we've spent over the last few years on slate, and shit that's died, and some stuff that's lived. Also, I don't feel like mowing just a small bit of lawn. I just don't. Anyway, we only have a bit of grass left, including some pesky patches along our side entrance, and that strip between the sidewalk and street. Should I pour boiling water on it, to try to kill it? Should I go for more ground covers? Should we make our sidewalk wider, so it goes right to the curb? Is that legal? Maybe I can put down some bricks. Can I handle cement and leveling on my own, so the bastard children going to and from school can't remove said bricks and throw them through our — or anyone else's — windows.
I should vacuum more frequently since my farting, snoring, hair-pulling, head-kicking dog loves to tear up any little bit of anything he can get his grubby mouth on. Especially since my kid is on the cusp of crawling. I should vacuum more because it will show the kid some discipline and cleanliness and responsibility, and all of that, and I do want to raise a good, independent, capable boy. But maybe by not vacuuming, I can do a better job of that?
And shit, I need to stop swearing, and soon. I'll try, but it's HARD. I'm going to give up one word at a time, and this week's word is not shit.
We need to get a large quantity of shit to the thrift store so we have the option of using our dining room. The clutter issue is the only one on my to-do list that gives me pause for real worry. Near my sister's place, there lives a woman whose garage is so packed, she cannot close the door. When we pass this place on the way to Jenny's, Glen looks at it, and says with pride, "Someday, we will be like that, too." And we might, though I'm not nearly excited about it as Glen is.
We need to get Steve, and Simon, my most excellent kitty, to the vet, and I finally made the appointment, yesterday. That was on my nightly insomniac to-do list for a couple of weeks, but last night, the focus of this task changed to trying to think up snarky comebacks to the unbelievably rude German office manager, but I gave up, because I am not competitive, or even really that mean, and I don't have enough strategy in my brain to even guess what sort of rude shit she'll say to me next week. But, in a sick way, I'm looking forward to it. I don't mind a bit of German abuse. Twisted, huh?
We have a couple of rooms we need to paint in the house; one of the rooms is the room we hope to move Matthew into. I kinda hate baby stuff, even baby boy stuff, so when it's time to paint, I won't be be able to do anything too infantile. So, I am wondering if a Star Trek theme will screw him up for life?
Would I, if I could get away with it, drop a bomb on my new neighbors and a couple of the old ones, or in some other way, delete them from my street? I think about this almost every night while I stare at the ceiling, and almost every single night, the answer is resoundingly "yes." Yes, I would rid my street of the baddies, and while I may have insomnia afterward, it would not be for any moral reasons. But who knows, maybe I'd sleep better without the neighborhoods evildoers. Maybe we all would. I generally do not feel as confident about my violent thoughts in the morning, especially after a shitty night's sleep, and before my coffee, and with more pressing issues to address.
I have my work cut out for me. Hopefully I can get some good sleep soon, so I have the energy.
The Cost of Maestro
1 day ago