Call It Whatever You Want . . . I'll Call It Rotten

My husband and I don't even agree to disagree, that's too disharmonious for me. I need everyone to think exactly the same way I do.

They should agree with me, too.

Always.

And not just my husband. Really, I like the kids to think their own things, as long as it is what I would think about that very same thing.

You pickin' up what I'm laying down?

Imagine my chagrin when Tova decided to think something else about things. In particular, night related things. Like sleeping.

I'm really tired. Washed out. Lethargic. Inconsolably exhausted.

When that old fart sneezed on me on Sunday I fell ill, remember? Then Tova and Annike got it. Annike is a champ, a true hero of getting-betterness. Tova hasn't figured things out just yet, so instead of focusing, she's been spending her days blowing green snot bubbles out of her nostrils at our nanny -- who is only recently semi-comfortable with body fluids.

That is how Tova has been spending her days, well, that and eating Chinese checkers pieces. As to how Tova has been spending her nights, well let me tell you . . .

I'm so grrrrrrr-frustrated at feeling this pitiful. Makes me more pitiful. Makes my contacts pop out. Damn brand-new contacts.

I . . . just . . . need . . . sleep.

I told Tova. I think.

For sure, I told my husband. I especially told him (can I say that?). I told him 2-sleepless nights ago at 4:00 in the morning. I cried it out at the top of my whisper, hoping and praying it would have an effect on his sleep through anything at any time man-brain.

Wah, wah, wah. Working everyday with this dang virus and a sleepless baby and no sleep.

Probably, Tova feels just as miserable as me. She can't breathe through her nose because there are green and yellow rivers of boogies. She wakes up every couple of short something-or-others to ask for help and a little boobie snack. Lars suckers out her nose in his sleep, then I hook that little fella on my ta-ta that faces the center of the bed (so she won't roll off the side of the bed) and lay there while she nurses with my eyes close, in misery, waiting for her to stop using me as a pacifier. Then I get 35-minutes of sleep until we're at it again. In the mean time, my left boob becomes engorged and 8-times the natural size a boob oughta be.

Don't ask me why I only feed her on the inner boob at night. I don't want to talk about it. It was awful. (She fell off our bed one night as I was nursing her on lefty! Just fell off! My tube sock boob couldn't hold her! Dang it.) I don't want to talk about it. Don't make me tell you.

Tonight is the night things are going to change. My husband is going to have to accept the fact that while this could be a teensy-weensy bit teething, and a teensy-weensy bit growth spurt (his old standbys when the baby shit hits the fan) that this is really a cold and that if we're going to get through this then I am going to have to sleep tonight. As in this night. Red wine, vicodin, ambien, Nyquil -- whatever it takes, thy will be done.

He plans on going surfing tomorrow morning at 6 a.m. I guess he's taking Tovey Marge with him because I, for one, do not intend to be operable.