Rather, two nights ago, Kiddo #2 misplaced his Poochie and no one has been able to sleep since. Of course, after a certain point of exhaustion, slumber overtakes even the most forlorn of toddlers, and Kiddo #1 and Husband quickly followed suit.
Not me, though. All I can think about is how Poochie is gone and how much that sonofaquilt means to my sonofa... ha. At 2am, that sounds really hilarious, by the way. That must be why infomercials run late at night-- the shoddy acting and unbelievable claims are much more acceptable when you're running on insomnia and waiting for the benedryl to kick in.
Not me, though. All I can think about is how Poochie is gone and how much that sonofaquilt means to my sonofa... ha. At 2am, that sounds really hilarious, by the way. That must be why infomercials run late at night-- the shoddy acting and unbelievable claims are much more acceptable when you're running on insomnia and waiting for the benedryl to kick in.
(PS, if you have trouble sleeping, a Doctor once recommended to me to take a benedryl. I thought to myself, "But I'm not allergic to sleep. I just can't get there." and the Dr said that it's a non-addicting way to take the edge off an overactive mind and get some sleep. I've been using it (randomly, without addiction) as needed, ever since.)
All of us have scoured the main floor; yesterday I decimated Kiddo #1's room thinking (since Kiddo #2 loves to hang out in his sister's room while she's at school) maybe Poochie was stuffed into one of the many wee boxes full of "treasures" and "collections" that exist within its walls. Hell, I even checked Katty's cage (our new hamster) in case she had him in her giant fluffy nest.
Nope.
All of us have scoured the main floor; yesterday I decimated Kiddo #1's room thinking (since Kiddo #2 loves to hang out in his sister's room while she's at school) maybe Poochie was stuffed into one of the many wee boxes full of "treasures" and "collections" that exist within its walls. Hell, I even checked Katty's cage (our new hamster) in case she had him in her giant fluffy nest.
Nope.
I then moved into Kiddo #2's room and tore it apart. It was a much faster, since he doesn't have 4 years of stuff, only 1.5 years worth, but the search was also fruitless.
I ripped through the living room, the kitchen, I checked inside the hutch where my amazing dishes are (hoping against hope that Poochie was not actually in with my good dishes) and turned to the pantry. After a morning of anti-climatic "Ah-Ha!"s, I entered our bedroom and began scouring it as well.
During my time searching, digging, opening, moving, sweeping (which was interspersed with random fits of fatigue and tears) I did not find the missing friend. I did, however, find my missing belt, three pairs of Kiddo #1's shades, 16 magnetic letters of the alphabet (nowhere near the fridge) and the Mount Everest of single socks. I'm pretty sure I saw my virginity in there, too, but it's been gone so long I don't think I would recognize it anymore anyway, so I let it be.
I invited neighbours. I bribed Kiddo #1 with a pony. I tried to get the dog in on the bloodhound action (she wasn't really into it, being a Jack Russell Terrier. BUT she did vow to leave no stone unturned if only I would let her please, oh please, search the hamster cage, please.) Kiddo #2 followed me around chanting, "Pooooocheeee... pooooocheeeee..." and rubbing his eyes. Then I realized the only place I hadn't yet searched was our garbage.
Frick.
I put two plastic grocery bags on each hand (who actually keeps rubber gloves in their house?), opened a new, black garbage bag and headed, mournfully, into the garage.
I ripped open the bag and was overcome with the stench of 5 overnight pull-ups, 5 disposable (nighttime) diapers, countless poops (we cloth diaper and sometimes flush the poops, sometimes forget and trash them), rotten celery, many fetid milk bags OH! And what's this? Oh! Raw chicken bits. Oh praise! The gag reflex is so strong I briefly wonder if I'm actually pregnant, then dismiss the thought with the next gagging breath I take.
I tried focusing on good things that smell wonderful, like baked bread or newborn baby heads, but I can't get passed the stench.
I put the stinking bag into the 'fresh' one, tie them hastily shut and gag my way back into the house. Without Poochie. That was Sunday night.
By the time the Cleaning Fairy appeared on Tuesday morning, I was beside myself with glee: if anyone could find Poochie, it would be our wonderful, thorough Cleaning Fairy. Oh the hope that filled my heart with joy and happiness. But, alas, no.
Even she didn't find him. Husband and I decided to suck it up and check the basement. Oh, we'd been down there countless times before Tuesday and didn't find him, but that didn't necessarily mean Poochie wasn't there.
Our basement is unfinished BUT, it's not a free-for-all. The framing is up making our basement a maze of nooks and crannies, of boxes, and wires (and boxes OF wires); it's the English Muffin of basements. Yet, once again, nothing.
So, I went back out to my nemesis.
There, taunting me with a stench that would straighten your pubic hair (unless yours is straight, then yours would curl), I faced the raw chicken once more, just to be sure. Oh, don't worry-- if Poochie HAD been there, he would have stayed there-- I'm not messing around with frickin' salmonella or who-knows-what. But I just had to be sure, either way, of Poochie's whereabouts.
At this point of frustration and disgust (whilst thinking, "Gee, I bet if inmates had to sort our garbage at the dump every day of their imprisonment, crime rates would plummet.") I gave up, cleaned myself up, and got into the car.
I drove up and down my street with the windows down calling "Pooooocheeeee" as though the stuffed animal might hear me and return.
And, now you're caught up. It's 2am and I can't sleep.
See, Kiddo #2 starts daycare tomorrow (well, in a few hours) and the thought of him being in a new place, without his sister, and his Poochie, and having a nap is giving me anxiety. (I'm sure HE'd be fine, but I'm freaking out)
I reluctantly throw back the covers and haul my self downstairs to search the basement once more. I start in the farthest corner, my sewing room. I open boxes, I move things, I get on my hands and knees and crawl around (thus ensuring I also found every stray pin and needle I've ever dropped. Sigh.)
I look in stuff that is too small to hold the dog, I even brave the back room (where the sump-pump and werewolves live) to try and find that little dog.
And then. As if by magic, I see it. A teeny, tiny, wee brown dot.
Triumph! With trumpets blaring (in my head) and confetti falling (on my head, in my head) I strut my awesome self upstairs holding the prized pal!
I was seriously torn between "Shall we wake the house to announce the triumphant return of Poochie?" and "I'll just sneak into his room and tuck Poochie into his arms without disturbing him."
I ended up doing the latter and I watch as my sleeping boy nuzzled the lost friend, snuggled into him and took a deep, relaxing breath.
I return to bed, only NOW I can't sleep because I'm SO. FRICKIN'. AWESOME!
I just lay there, staring at the ceiling almost waking Husband to revel in my FRICKIN' AWESOMENESS, but I don't because I don't want to commit to anything more than revelling. Revelry? No thanks, it's 3am.
Then, I remember! I have some leftover Lycra from a Gaga costume I made a couple of weeks ago (for no particular reason. It's just how I roll). I bust outta bed and float downstairs on clouds of awesome glory, created in my wake.
Sometimes (often) people ask me where I get my energy. Here's the truth: sometimes I get it from harnessing rage and turning it into something beautiful. Sometimes I get it from a well-timed manic upswing (although I'm not 'technically' manic, nor am I 'technically' ADD. But if it looks like a duck...).
And then, there are other times. These are my favourite times-- times when my energy level comes from basking in the glory of my own awesomeness. In fact, when it's that case, The Awesome Case, the only way I can possibly return to sleep is to create an homage to myself.
So, back into the basement I went, using my newly found pins and needles. I busted out an awesome Lycra costume (complete with cape, but not mask, because I WANT people to recognise me and my awesomeness). Once that was finished, I pulled out my super awesome markers and some paper, wrote, drew and inked a comic book series based on (you guessed it) my awesomeness.
Hitting the stands this Spring: Mommy Awesome and her sidekicks, The Pterodactyl Ptoddlers VS Captain Cloaking: he can hide anything! Will M.A. be able to outwit Captain Cloaking before the Pterodactyl Ptoddlers start screaming???
Stay Tuned! (and for heaven's sake, don't take your eyes off Poochie!)
I ripped through the living room, the kitchen, I checked inside the hutch where my amazing dishes are (hoping against hope that Poochie was not actually in with my good dishes) and turned to the pantry. After a morning of anti-climatic "Ah-Ha!"s, I entered our bedroom and began scouring it as well.
During my time searching, digging, opening, moving, sweeping (which was interspersed with random fits of fatigue and tears) I did not find the missing friend. I did, however, find my missing belt, three pairs of Kiddo #1's shades, 16 magnetic letters of the alphabet (nowhere near the fridge) and the Mount Everest of single socks. I'm pretty sure I saw my virginity in there, too, but it's been gone so long I don't think I would recognize it anymore anyway, so I let it be.
I invited neighbours. I bribed Kiddo #1 with a pony. I tried to get the dog in on the bloodhound action (she wasn't really into it, being a Jack Russell Terrier. BUT she did vow to leave no stone unturned if only I would let her please, oh please, search the hamster cage, please.) Kiddo #2 followed me around chanting, "Pooooocheeee... pooooocheeeee..." and rubbing his eyes. Then I realized the only place I hadn't yet searched was our garbage.
Frick.
 |
| This is gag-tacular. |
I put two plastic grocery bags on each hand (who actually keeps rubber gloves in their house?), opened a new, black garbage bag and headed, mournfully, into the garage.
I ripped open the bag and was overcome with the stench of 5 overnight pull-ups, 5 disposable (nighttime) diapers, countless poops (we cloth diaper and sometimes flush the poops, sometimes forget and trash them), rotten celery, many fetid milk bags OH! And what's this? Oh! Raw chicken bits. Oh praise! The gag reflex is so strong I briefly wonder if I'm actually pregnant, then dismiss the thought with the next gagging breath I take.
I tried focusing on good things that smell wonderful, like baked bread or newborn baby heads, but I can't get passed the stench.
I put the stinking bag into the 'fresh' one, tie them hastily shut and gag my way back into the house. Without Poochie. That was Sunday night.
By the time the Cleaning Fairy appeared on Tuesday morning, I was beside myself with glee: if anyone could find Poochie, it would be our wonderful, thorough Cleaning Fairy. Oh the hope that filled my heart with joy and happiness. But, alas, no.
Even she didn't find him. Husband and I decided to suck it up and check the basement. Oh, we'd been down there countless times before Tuesday and didn't find him, but that didn't necessarily mean Poochie wasn't there.
Our basement is unfinished BUT, it's not a free-for-all. The framing is up making our basement a maze of nooks and crannies, of boxes, and wires (and boxes OF wires); it's the English Muffin of basements. Yet, once again, nothing.
So, I went back out to my nemesis.
There, taunting me with a stench that would straighten your pubic hair (unless yours is straight, then yours would curl), I faced the raw chicken once more, just to be sure. Oh, don't worry-- if Poochie HAD been there, he would have stayed there-- I'm not messing around with frickin' salmonella or who-knows-what. But I just had to be sure, either way, of Poochie's whereabouts.
At this point of frustration and disgust (whilst thinking, "Gee, I bet if inmates had to sort our garbage at the dump every day of their imprisonment, crime rates would plummet.") I gave up, cleaned myself up, and got into the car.
I drove up and down my street with the windows down calling "Pooooocheeeee" as though the stuffed animal might hear me and return.
And, now you're caught up. It's 2am and I can't sleep.
See, Kiddo #2 starts daycare tomorrow (well, in a few hours) and the thought of him being in a new place, without his sister, and his Poochie, and having a nap is giving me anxiety. (I'm sure HE'd be fine, but I'm freaking out)
I reluctantly throw back the covers and haul my self downstairs to search the basement once more. I start in the farthest corner, my sewing room. I open boxes, I move things, I get on my hands and knees and crawl around (thus ensuring I also found every stray pin and needle I've ever dropped. Sigh.)
I look in stuff that is too small to hold the dog, I even brave the back room (where the sump-pump and werewolves live) to try and find that little dog.
And then. As if by magic, I see it. A teeny, tiny, wee brown dot.
 |
| You can actually see Poochie's wee brown ear in this picture. And, you can, thusly, also see why it took us 3 days to find him. |
I was seriously torn between "Shall we wake the house to announce the triumphant return of Poochie?" and "I'll just sneak into his room and tuck Poochie into his arms without disturbing him."
I ended up doing the latter and I watch as my sleeping boy nuzzled the lost friend, snuggled into him and took a deep, relaxing breath.
I return to bed, only NOW I can't sleep because I'm SO. FRICKIN'. AWESOME!
I just lay there, staring at the ceiling almost waking Husband to revel in my FRICKIN' AWESOMENESS, but I don't because I don't want to commit to anything more than revelling. Revelry? No thanks, it's 3am.
Then, I remember! I have some leftover Lycra from a Gaga costume I made a couple of weeks ago (for no particular reason. It's just how I roll). I bust outta bed and float downstairs on clouds of awesome glory, created in my wake.
Sometimes (often) people ask me where I get my energy. Here's the truth: sometimes I get it from harnessing rage and turning it into something beautiful. Sometimes I get it from a well-timed manic upswing (although I'm not 'technically' manic, nor am I 'technically' ADD. But if it looks like a duck...).
And then, there are other times. These are my favourite times-- times when my energy level comes from basking in the glory of my own awesomeness. In fact, when it's that case, The Awesome Case, the only way I can possibly return to sleep is to create an homage to myself.
So, back into the basement I went, using my newly found pins and needles. I busted out an awesome Lycra costume (complete with cape, but not mask, because I WANT people to recognise me and my awesomeness). Once that was finished, I pulled out my super awesome markers and some paper, wrote, drew and inked a comic book series based on (you guessed it) my awesomeness.
Hitting the stands this Spring: Mommy Awesome and her sidekicks, The Pterodactyl Ptoddlers VS Captain Cloaking: he can hide anything! Will M.A. be able to outwit Captain Cloaking before the Pterodactyl Ptoddlers start screaming???
Stay Tuned! (and for heaven's sake, don't take your eyes off Poochie!)
No comments:
Post a Comment