Who is that hairy dude??

I got a big freelance job working from home. The kind that will actually help me afford to put gas in my car. I thought it was a dream come true—until I tried to actually do my job while keeping two little people happy.

Actually, screw happy. How about just plain ole QUIET?

I've calmly explained to my five-year-old that I need to work on a project for "Mommy's client" so many times, he's actually made up a song about it. He plugs his nose and sings (in a very bored voice):

Mommy's cli-ent
Mommy's client
Mommy's cli-ent
Mommy's client...

It's not a very good song, but I don't blame him for the nasal chorus. Life does suddenly feel awfully congested. In the five years since I became a mom, I've thought so much about the pros and cons of WOHM and SAHM arrangements (always while enmeshed in the other), I never even thought about the WAHM life.  

I'm so happy I got invited to this schmorgesborg too. It's so...insane. 

Anyway, so yes, I have been gone from the blogosphere a lot but unlike every other time I've taken a little break, this time I mean it when I say I'm so balls to the wall I can't see straight. My laundry is up to the ceiling. I can't find the cat. I think Chuck grew a beard, otherwise there's some really hairy guy sleeping in my bed with me. I eat, pee and parent while taking phone calls. I get up at 6 a.m. and go to bed at 2 a.m. I've started making lists and posting them everywhere.

EVERYWHERE.

But here's the thing: I kind of like it. The craziness, that is. And having something productive to do while the kids watch Curious George. Big bonus: if someone's going to sing a patronizing song about your employer

Mommy's cli-ent
Mommy's client
Mommy's cli-ent
Mommy's client... 

It's so much more enjoyable coming from your kid than from that asshole in the next cubicle over. 

Where I've been for two weeks

For the last two weeks, Everett has been waking up two and three times a night—screaming—then he's up again at 5:30 a.m. Again, screaming. This from a child who used to sleep soundly from 7:30 p.m. to 7:30 a.m.

Chuck's been out of town for work, so it's just me and the shithead in the wee morning hours.

My ass is dragging so much I can't think of anything funny to say about where my ass actually is.

This morning, I needed something. I couldn't chug a beer (or, rather, I didn't). I don't huff caffeine—or anything else for that matter—and the water wasn't even boiling yet for the coffee press. I don't smoke. So I grabbed a Dove chocolate bar and shoved it into my mouth.

It was creamy wonderfulness.

As good as it was, it didn't remedy what's been ailing me. In fact, nothing has remedied Everett's crappy sleep schedule. I've tried everything, from checking for new teeth, to checking for soiled diapers. From checking for fevers, to checking for Charlie horses.

None of the above. 

I've tried feeding him more. Feeding him less. Changing his bedding. Dressing him more cooly. Dressing him more warmly. Letting him cry. Picking him up. Giving him more stuffed animals. Giving him more fans. Putting him down sooner. Putting him down later. He likes cats; I even thought about putting cat pictures on the wall.

You get the idea.

Then, today, I asked Junior if he knew why Everett was waking up screaming.

"It's creepy in his bedroom," he said.

"Creepy?"

"It's too dark."

"So you wouldn't want to sleep in there?"

"No way."
 
Aha!

Tonight, I busted out the night lights. I left the curtains open. I left on the bathroom light.

So far, so good. Granted, it's only 8:30 p.m. but from what I can tell from downstairs, he seems to be sleeping soundly.

Ah, wait. I'm getting a message. Yes! Yes! My ass is upstairs and just confirmed it: Everett is sound asleep.

Halle-poo-jah!

(Amazing how having children makes opportunities for butt jokes strangely irresistible.)

When they come down the stairs...

...after you have put them to bed, and you're exhausted because they were up the previous night throwing up or losing stuffed animals or falling apart because their blankets were askew, and they look at you and moan, "I'm still hungry" or "I need a drink" and you quickly—urgently! expediently!—shuffle them back upstairs and plop them down—urgently! expediently! before they can make any new requests!—and kiss them again and tell them GOOD NIGHT again, and you close the door and quietly, gingerly, tiptoe away and collapse onto the couch...

When those things happen, I am reminded of horror movies. You know the scenes: the good guy has just shot/stabbed/weed whacked the bad guy and the good guy takes one last trepidatious walk around the body, hoping—praying—he's finally in the clear and

WHAM! The bad guy leaps up and grabs the good guy's ankle and attempts to get him just ONE LAST TIME—"I'm still hungry"—and the good guy grasps at whatever he can—'Too bad, you should have eaten more dinner!"—to impale the bad guy just ONE LAST TIME, JUST PLEASE LET THIS TIME BE IT.

Personally, the final scene of "Sleeping with the Enemy" always comes to mind (perhaps because it takes place at the bottom of the stairwell) but really, you can custom-fit this little mental game to any of your favorite slasher films.

Special, huh? This post is so going in the kids' baby books.