The Middle of the Bed

After years of sleeping on the left side of the bed, last night I tried sleeping in the middle.  I'd like to say this move came from new-found comfort with my single status, but necessity forced my hand.  Quite possibly, my younger's favorite part of having only one parent in each residence is the space it opens up in the parent's bed.  I co-slept for years with my younger, at least for part of most nights.  He was an all-night nurser for more years than I care to tell, and sharing a mattress on the floor of his room for most of each night kept me vertical during the day. 

Until last week, I laid with him until he fell asleep.  Every night.  For eight and a half years. I'd tried to coax him toward independent sleep in the past, but illness, travel, and parental upheaval interruped our plans.  It simply wasn't important enough to me to seriously stress my rather sensitive and volitle younger son, and I believe in choosing my battles.  But this month, he was ready.  It's gone swimmingly.  I read to him as always, snuggle for 10 minutes, and leave.  We're both proud. 

So what's with last night's full bed?  He sometimes uses his blonde, eight-year-old wiles to win his way into my bed for stories and subsequent sleep.  I still leave until my bedtime, but he likes the idea of waking with me in the morning.  Fine by me, especially given nightly lows in single digits.  At least the bed is warmer.  Last night, however, my older needed a bit of mom, too.  Anxiety brought him in for conversation and distraction but overcrowding (here's where I end up in the middle) drove him back to his bed. 

After he left, I tried to stay in the middle, figuring it was time to claim the bed as mine, despite the small, warm addition to my right.  After seven years of two sleepers (and two years of just one) creating dents inthe pillow top mattress, no amount of rotating makes for a flat surface.  The middle is a hill between the valleys, and I prefer level ground when sleeping.  Back to the right side of the bed.

Spider bites to the feet sent my older scurrying back at some obscene hour, so I returned to the middle.  We're all pretty small people, but this load is just a bit much, even for my queen-sized bed.  The night was long.  Finally my younger awoke, earlier than I usually prefer, but at least we could all get out of bed.  Nighttime parenting continues as long as the kids are in the house, but I'm hoping to limit my number of nights in the middle of the bed.  Perhaps I'll celebrate that point with a new mattress.

(Moon image thanks to NASA public domain photos)

Out of My Mind

Emmy was hard to return.  Although she's only been with us two weeks, she really found her place in our home.  She fit in well:  talkative, heat-seeking, and assertive about her needs.  She and I just bonded.

So returning her to the Michigan Humane Society was tough today.  I've liked most of our foster cats, but a few are special, and letting go of those is a tougher.  As my younger and I walked down to the cat rooms,  a foster employee stage whispered, "If you want them, we have great fosters for you!"  Before she elaborated I knew she had kittens, but before I could ask, she continued, "Six babies, each under a pound and about five weeks old!" 

My younger squealed with the delight only six kittens, each able to fit your hand, can bring.  What can I say?  His joy was infectious, as was the staff's pleasure that we'd care for such a brood until they recovered from their kitten cold and gained enough weight to be adoptable.  Of course they came home with us. 

On the way home, I called my older to share the news.  His jumps (audible through the phone) and yells said it all.  "You said never more than four at a time again, Mom!  And now we have SIX!!" 

He's right.  After a particularly worm-infested (read: poopy in the wrong places) set of five, I swore to keep the kitten-count under that level.  But these babies needed us.  And the five hadn't been that difficult, had they?  I'm a bit of a sucker for cats in need but much more of one for the joy of my sons, especially in dreary January.  So here they are.  Yoda, Obi, Chewie,Sam, Rosalind, and Irene.  Stuffy, sneezy, and adorable.  And I'm smiling, but perhaps I'm just out of my mind. 

Mom Interrupted

For this post, I'm logging the kids' interruptions (1 - Older implied younger was a geek. He is. They both are, but younger doesn't want to be called that) in real time  (2 -Younger sticks duct tape in older's hair. At older's request.) during a single blogging session.  Good luck reading this (3-Younger brings kitten to me, asking a question the kitten has.).

Sometimes my most burning question (4-Younger complains about his brother's answer to a simple question he asked.) is whether I'll ever be able to carry a thought longer than 20 seconds long while the boys are in the house (5-"Mom, did you notice the present under the tree?" asks older), not including any time they spend playing computer games or sleeping.  I worry if my older's ADD is contagious, and I wonder if I've caught it. 

I'd like to say I'm reassured by my longer periods of concentration when they're not here, that I notice an ability to sit for hours, writing, reading, or just thinking.  I'd be lying, however.  (6- "He won't accept a free wedgie, Mom!  It's only five dollars!" my younger illogically notifies me.)  Even when alone, I have trouble settling into the quiet needed to allow myself submersion into a thoughtful activity.  I may write a paragraph or two only to urgently need to find a snack, warm my coffee, check on the kittens, or move the laundry.  (7- Some nonsensical notification of the pain of "Korean burns" from my younger.  I have no idea.) (8-Ditto number seven, but now "Canadian burns".)  I'm seriously concerned that I'll never focus again.

My meditation attempts are at least as scattered as my other stabs at prolonged attention (read: longer than 43 seconds).  I try but generally find my mind wandering off, a few breaths into the process.  Gently, I bring it back, but the wanderings far outnumber the breaths spent in quietude.  It's worse than monkey mind.  It's two-kids-at-home mind.  Yikes.  (9- More weird comments from younger -- seems I'm a "momafant."  I don't know, and I'm not asking.) (10- Broken icemaker triggered by older -- stern reminder from mom to leave it alone.)  Now where was I? 

Flu Blues

Two kids, nine consecutive days of fevers and coughs, and one mom losing her mind.  It's the flu.  The real McCoy, no "severe cold" or other such beast.  It's pretty nasty, too. The fevers are high and the chills are bone shaking.  Their coughs are gut-wrenching.  They've had achy bodies and touchy tummies.  I really feel bad for them.  And I feel bad for me.


Don't get me wrong. My empathy for the boys runs deep.  But right now, I'm having a pity party for me. I've had too little adult contact, even less sleep, and way too much whining exposure to be healthy for anyone. Almost every night for over a week, I've shared a bed with a sweaty child, moaning, coughing, and waking early as his body battled the viral villain.  I'm tired and rather cranky.


These are the times that try this mom's soul.  The internal push-pull between the mom-me and that me-me part.  As an attachment parenting type with five cumulative years breastfeeding two kids who has been homeschooling these offspring for the last five years, I'm wholly committed to mothering and family.  I chose to have these amazing creatures, and I believe in deep, impassioned, committed motherhood.  Some would say I drank the Kool Aid, giving up my own identity to parent my kids, but I'd wholly disagree.  It's a new dimension to me, and I've grown in ways I don't believe I would have without it.  It's also exhausted me, frustrated me, and sucked me dry at times.  Like now.

I need some regular time to just meet my own needs, not in a way that neglects the real needs of children but that respects that my own mental and physical health is essential to the well being of this family.  If I swallow the message that all should be about my children, 24/7, I miss some essentials to being a healthy woman.  This often is referred to as putting on one's own oxygen mask first, but that creates a sense of "emergency only" self care and consideration.  Ask any person who relies on the ER for all her medical care and you'll quickly realize most emergencies wouldn't exist if it weren't for neglect of routine care.  Regular nurturing of me keeps the oxygen mask need to a minimum.

So I'm feeling sorry for me.  With barely a breath without interruption for the past week and a half, I've missed that time to attend to me-me, and that portion of me screams for attention when neglected for long. It's all been oxygen masks for awhile, and I'm in need of some routine care, just enough to restore and strengthen this weary woman.  It's coming.