You Mean NOTHING To Me!

No, not you! You mean everything to me. I’m talking about the time change. Daylight Saving Time kicks in this weekend. When I was a kid, and even in the early years of marriage, fall was my favorite because I got an extra hour of sleep! Yay! Now I could not care less about the big event. I’ll give you five reasons.

She’s old and set in her ways. She expects breakfast at 5:30 as it is, and we don’t get up  ’til 6.

If she even thinks she’s going to miss a meal, she protests.

Our train-wreck of a cat. She’s not as dire as she looks. Even her photo won’t align right.

She only pretends to like us.

’nuff said.

Enjoy your hour, if you can get it!

Powering Through

The time has come. I’m all about arbitrary deadlines. It’s even more fun when I’m the one who gets to set them. And so I did. I issued Squish an eviction notice. He has been my roommate for over three years now, and it’s time for both of us to move on, so I set the date. I announced to the family that by Easter, Squish would be full-time resident in his brother’s room. The boys were thrilled.

"We are best brudders!" And now they're roommates.

Since sleeping in strange quarters can be a little discombobulating, I thought it might be easier to have a test-run, and so we did. Friday night. And now I sit at my computer feeling like I have been hit by a truck and wishing there was a way to mainline caffeine.

Did he stay in his new bed? Yes. Was he quiet? Sure. Did he go to sleep easily? Not so much. He was still awake at 10pm. Did he wake at 5:45am all raucous and ready to go? Um, yeah.

A normal person would put him back in his regular bed  for a few days to allow us all to recover before attempting again. So of course, I didn’t do that. Blame sleep-deprived stupidity if you want (I do), but Squish has now taken up permanent residence in the bottom bunk in his brother’s room. You know why? The time change.

Daylight Saving Time was a great idea in an agrarian culture, allowing farmers to take advantage of natural light. And don’t get me wrong. I love the idea of gaining an extra hour of sleep in the fall, but moving the clock ahead in the spring wrecks my life for weeks. Kids don’t understand going to bed while the sun is still shining. It takes ages for everyone to adjust. It was that very thought that spurred the decision to launch him for good.

I can either spend two weeks adjusting to new bedtimes, and then mess him up all over again with a move, or I can just do it all at once. I am ripping off the band-aid, friends. If I have to be miserable for awhile, at least there will be a big-ole light at the end of the tunnel.

My plan was simple. Keep the kid awake all day, run him around until he is exhausted, and then he’ll be simply begging to go to sleep early. So simple. Never confuse simple with easy. I chickened out yesterday at noon when he was weeping over a chicken nugget he never had and put him down for a nap. As a result, he didn’t go to sleep until after 10pm again. And lost an hour of sleep to boot.

Gosh. They're so much cuter when they're sleeping.

So today, he is wrecked, and we are determined. We are tag-teaming with the little critter so that neither of us loses our minds completely. Although my husband seems to have disappeared altogether now that I think of it. We just have a couple of hours left to go until we can send him to dreamland. We can do it.

For your reading pleasure, I share with you the discussions that have led to meltdowns today.

 Whether or not he may knock his teeth out. To his credit, he did attempt a compromise by asking “Maybe I can knock my teeth out another day? Pwease?” Bonus points for good manners.

 A sudden conviction that he is broken. And can only be fixed with duct tape.

 Whether or not his toy tractor will, indeed, cut grass. 

 The social acceptability of going to church naked. Or in swim trunks.

The proper age at which a child may walk to the playground by himself. Here’s a hint. It’s not three.

The inability visit to the public library for a new Bob the Builder DVD. Although I understand. I love the library, myself.

His lack of attendance at group therapy. Eavesdropping on grownup discussions will only leave you disappointed, little friends.

The inedibility of Mercer Mayer books. And my refusal to eat one myself. I am unreasonable.


We are hanging on by our teeth, but in a few weeks, life is going to be GREAT! I won’t have any excuse for not folding laundry at night anymore. Oh, wait…

Too Tired To Think of a Title

Daylight Saving Time started. So exciting. Or it would be if I hadn’t squandered mine. Yesterday Squish woke up at an ungodly hour, and I made the deal. If dear husband would get up with him, I would let him have Daylight Saving Sunday to sleep in. He could enjoy that extra hour. That’s right. I made a deal with the devil, and I am paying. (to my husband, so the rest of you look away, please: No, sweetie. You’re not the devil. The devil is who must have made me so sleepy yesterday that I was willing to tinkle away this once-a-year gift. Go back to sleep. I love you!) Okay, you guys can read again.

So here I sit at this early hour, hanging out with Squish and waiting for my coffee to brew. Speaking of hours, can you tell me what hour it actually is? I have no idea if my husband messed with any of the clocks yet, so I couldn’t tell you the time. And waking him up to ask him would kind of violate the sanctity of Sleeping In Sunday. I could look at my computer’s time stamp, but I can’t remember if we ever downloaded the patch for the new DST. Oh, well. Life is an adventure, and I do like living on the edge.

I could listen to the radio to see what time is it. I could. Except that all the stations I can tolerate are national once. Their time-check’s involve the generic phrase “It’s now twenty past the hour.” Darn you, NPR, for your inability to commit! Which hour? Do  I just get to pick one? Actually, I might be okay with that one. I pick 4am. That way I get to whine about how early I was up but have lots of extra time.

Phoebe is no help. She has a stomach clock with atomic accuracy. Within 10 minutes of feeding time, she is dancing and yipping, waiting to be fed. Either way, she should have sounded off by now. Apparently a day of holding the couch down has left her so exhausted she doesn’t care about food.

Not being blessed with any kind of linear thought process,when it’s left up to me, I am not sure when to get everyone up. Yes, I am that stupid. An hour extra. Does that mean that I need to get everyone up earlier? If I mess it up, will we get to church as everyone else is leaving? Or will we be there so early that we’re alone in the parking lot? Maybe I should aim for the middle to cut our losses.

I give up. This makes my head hurt. I’m going back to bed.Wake me in the spring.

Sleep well, little man. You don't have to wake for an hour. Or two hours? Or should you already be up? Poop. We're going to be late. Or really early. I can't win.