It comes in seasons the crazy, and now it’s times two. It is strange, almost eerie really, the cycle our lives seem to fall in. I wonder sometimes if there is perhaps some celestial being in Heaven who pulls on gravity, and shoves Saturn in just a way to make us periodically out of our minds? Well perhaps not me, I’m always sane, I’m of course referring to the rugrats with whom I presently co-habitate.
As we have found ourselves immersed in quite the abrupt transposition of our household, I’m mining my way through cardboard each morning, noon, and night just to make my first, second, third, and fourth cup of coffee. The children are mining for other things, any things in fact. It’s a great thrill to rip the tape, that shrill in the ears seems to roll them over in hysterics. My insistence that they stop is lost in their outbursts of excitement as they throw all the contents into the air.
I would fight them but instead I ponder my exhaustion as I inhale the entire contents of the Shop Girl mug I bestow proudly in my grasp. The coffee is warm and smoother now that the sweet cream is perfectly over compensated. I purse my lips and close my eyes taking in the amazing wonders of my brew, meditating on the thick sweet liquid against my cheeks. I imagine it soaking into my skin, creating a see of electric energy before I finally gulp it down. It warms my chest, my heart, my lungs and then my stomach. To God I take a moment and say, “SOS”. It’s all so moving, so spiritual and yet I open my eyes only to emerge the same exhausted woman I was before.
I’ve grown concerned over Baby K’s seizures. They keep me up at night; the imaginary ones that is. The ones I create in my head every moment of every day. This new strange fixation was created when I held my baby twice as her tiny body flailed with limp abandon over the course of two months. I listen to her every move, check her temperature three times through the night. If she so much as looked up to see the top of the christmas tree my heart would stop in panic that she was indeed about to begin convulsing, her eyes rolled up in her head. When she coughed, choked and gagged. I spent then entire circus in shaking terror, tears streaming down my face, I didn’t know enough. I didn’t ask the right questions. I was a terrible mom. What if she was prone to the sensitivity towards flashing lights, like the epileptics? How is it so different?
On Christmas eve there was a knock on the door, a kind neighbor who had received our package by mistake. “I didn’t know if this was important to your morning tomorrow,” she started, “wouldn’t want someone to miss out on a special gift.”
I looked down at the parcel which was barely the size of my hand, “This is far more precious than any gift under our tree,” and I smiled with relief. Within was the wearable thermometer for Baby K, the one that would alert our phones should there be any temperature change. The exhaustion had gotten to be so much I wanted to cry with relief as the little power light flashed an affirmative green wink my way. I followed the directions and then placed her in her crib still following my routine of checking her temperature with three different thermometers. One reads a little high, the second a little low, and the final seems to be all over the charts, but when it hits it has trended the closest approximation.
I return to our room only to find that the alarm on my phone is already sounding a series of alarms: lost connection. Mr. R and I spend the next hour trying to rig a way to make this thermometer work, but my exhausted brain calls it quits and I endure a night on the hard wood floor beside the crib.
So here I sit still a month later, I have made great strides in my humble opinion. My paranoia has reduced so that I am finally allowing myself to drift into sweet slumber around two and three in the morning as opposed to four or five. I’m down to checking her temperature once a night instead of hourly, and I’m down to the one thermometer, old semi-reliable, accompanied with a gentle forehead touch.
In the chaos of zero sleep Lil A had to accompany us in bed for the first time since she was an infant sometime in November. The kid was spotted huffing liquid bandage in her closet, I knew not much could have been left in the tin, but with a sleep deprived brain what should have been a blue alert situation was a high red by the time Mr. R came home. I ran around the house crying and screaming, “I don’t know how much was left!” Mr. R dialed the poison control placed in our speed dial, though we strangely haven’t had to use it since the fall before….and then the fall before that when this girl decided to guzzle a good gulp of the “lishy” purple Kool-Aid we in the non-suicidal world call Pine-Sol. What an interesting coincidence I thought.
So she accompanied us to bed, we were supposed to check her breathing every two hours, and I decided for safe measure just to let her sleep beside me. The arrangement worked out well, I would check her breathing between Baby K’s temperature checks. We made it blissfully through the night with out any concerning results.
I’m coming back out of my state and I rise to check on the girls, they’ve managed their way through the labyrinth of cardboard back to Lil A’s room and things have just become a tad too quiet. Upon entry I’m faced with extreme angst, all of Lil A’s baby pictures of herself and her friends are ripped to shreds, and amongst that is her sonogram pictures a diagonal tear straight through her 4D face! “Why,” was all I could manage through the restrained tears.
I came to sit on my Facebook the very next day. I do not use Facebook for socializing much anymore, it’s become a tool for blog promotion so any personal communication has actually become a hinderance to the work I am achieving whilst on the site. Perhaps it was the sudden loss of so many memories I found myself strangely drawn to the time hop notification. Two years ago that day I had posted a query to my Facebook mom’s near and dear that Lil A had successful destroyed all my childhood toys, and I was asking for advice towards redirection as basic communication was basically not working…and obviously still isn’t. Then a strange thought…poison consumption in the fall, a tyranny of destruction in the winter…were these some strange trends aligned by the stars? Was this some form of destiny, or perhaps much like seasonal depression there is just seasonal insanity? Perhaps I just really need some sleep.