An H-E-Double-Hockeysticks Kind of Day

Last night I got home late. Like past my curfew late. So late that I had to run squealing from my car to the front door for fear that I would be attacked by the rabid raccoons that populate my neighborhood. It was all cool, though, because most of the time I don't fall asleep until midnight, no matter what time I tuck myself into bed, so after checking my email I changed and proceeded to spoon the snoring Dreamboat. After about thirty minutes of laying there (I was hyped up on three diet pops, after all), Sam woke up, which wasn't a huge surprise. What was a huge surprise, however, was the rancid smell that awaited me when I opened his door. You know that smell of stomach acid mixed with cat food and a little sour milk thrown in for good measure?

He had puked all over himself, his crib and his blanket. I quickly washed him off, changed his clothes, changed his sheets, hunted down a new blanket and rocked him back to sleep. About thirty minutes after I had crawled into bed Sam started crying again. He'd done a repeat of before. This time he went in the bath and I had to search for more bedding and pajamas.

When I'm doing things like this in the middle of the night, I always find myself wondering at the power of a man's sense of hearing and ability to sleep through every crisis that occurs after 10 o'clock at night.

At this point Sam was in no mood to go back to sleep, and I thought I might as well watch my recorded episode of So You Think You Can Dance? (is this not the stupidest name for the best show you have ever hear of?) By the time I got him into bed it was 4:30 am and I was literally shaking from fatigue. I knew I could get max about three hours of sleep before Mike needed to leave for work, but sometimes when you are so tired (and I had downed those three sodas, remember?) sleep is just evasive. I know it was at least an hour before my body and mind finally succumbed to sleep. Mike got up an hour later with Sam when he woke up, and then I dragged my sorry self out to the living room an hour after that. This is not shaping up to be a good day.

Did I mention I'm throwing a party for 100 people on Saturday? And that Mike is starting a painting job tomorrow and that I will literally not see or hear from him from six in the morning until midnight on Sunday?

At this moment I'm living for 3:00, about an hour and 15 minutes away. A nap for Sam and Charlie will be in order, and hopefully a brief nap for me, even though I should be sewing tablecloths and baking and decorating 100 sugar cookies. Mike REALLY wants to pick strawberries when he gets home from work, and I don't think I have the heart to tell him no.