Thursday, August 22, 2013

The (Not So Secret) LIfe of J

It's nearly 8 in the morning and I'm up and dressed. Bleary eyed, wanting to crawl back into bed, but I'm up. And J? That not so little turkey is back in bed for his morning nap. And I'm...writing. Because I can. And because my brain said forget it, honey, sleep ain't happening just yet.

I have no idea what time J woke up. The closest I can pinpoint it is between 3 and 5 AM. Unless my laptop is open, time means nothing to me in the dark hours of the morning. We do have a clock/radio but since no one needs to be up at a certain time in the morning, no one bothered to set it the last time a storm knocked the power out. But anyway.  Have I ever told you I'm a morning person? Yeah well, that only applies if "morning" begins at seven AM. 6:30 tops. Earlier than that and I'll look you straight in the eye and tell you it's night time.  The Hubs is a night owl. His work schedule is awesome for him because he's ready to go to bed right about the time I'm getting up to face the day. He usually stays up long enough for breakfast and for us to haggle over his wake up call. 

And J? J is a super night owl. He goes to bed anywhere between 9 and ten in the evening (later if we don't have melatonin in the house). You'd think this would be my cue to hit the sheets as well. Wrong! Well, I toddle off to bed about that time, but my nose is usually buried in a book, Pinterest, or a Murder, She Wrote rerun or two. That's my time to relax and enjoy. By midnight I'm fast asleep. If I'm lucky, so is J. And then... somewhere around three in the morning... J's internal alarm clock goes off and he's wide awake, bouncing off the walls declaring he's hungry (read:BORED!!)

My sleep fogged brain at this point barely registers anything. I open a blood shot eye and squint out the window. Still dark. That means night, folks. So I do what any good parent would do: holler "It's night time! Go to bed!" and pull the the covers over my shoulder and try to get back to sleep. 

Yeah, that lasts about five minutes. Ten if I'm lucky. For the next hour or so it's pretty much lather, rinse, repeat-- oh wait. It's more like bounce, shriek, loud holler, pull the covers up, repeat. It's a small house. His bedroom is right next to mine.  Eventually though, my brain sends signals to the rest of my body that I do in fact have movement in arms and legs --despite the three kitten pileup on my chest and arm. This same brain reminds me that during this back and forth exchange, J is anywhere but in bed. If we had a chandelier, especially one that could hold his weight, he'd be swinging on it. Seriously.
While I'm still fighting to remember I'm the Mama and responsible for Baby Bear, he's taking the first of many showers of the day; foraging for snacks in the cabinets (the fridge is locked 98% of the time at night so he can't get into that unless we forget); deciding that no one needs the lemon juice left out on the counter-- down the drain it goes.  So finally my brain gets this message to the rest of me and I'm up. I stumble into the kitchen, fix him a snack and we have a sleep deprived conversation. Eventually one of two things happens: he decides his nightly/early morning job is done and he goes back to bed, or Dad gets home from work and I slink off for an early morning nap. 

Good morning, y'all. See you in an hour or two. Mama needs a nap.

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