Know What I Hate?

That guy, that one we all know, who is doing well on his weight-loss program, who happens to pass by my office at 9:40, just as I'm opening a bottle of Mountain Dew, who just HAS to stop and say something stupid like, "Ohh, going for the big bottle, huh? It's kind of early."

Then, when he spies the bowl of bbq chips on my desk (which he only sees because he comes INTO my office) he says smugly, "You know? That's NOT the breakfast of champions."

What I say is, "I know." Then I shrug and go back to work.

He chortles and walks away.

What I wanted to say was, "Yeah, asshole, I know! But as the mother of an eight year old and a four year old who are both STILL crappy sleepers, I don't get to sit at the breakfast nook each morning having a leisurely cup of coffee and some whole grain toast with low fat peanut butter on it. No, I'm hit the fucking floor running at 5:30, getting my whiny four year old dress before I even get to pee because I am not allowed to get up without her right there, ready to start the day. Then I have to fight with the cranky, still-over-tired eight year old about five more days of reading intervention."

I want to say that but I don't. I just eat another chip, take another swig of Mt. Dew and shuddered when he chortles again, hoping he'll just go away and leave me the fuck alone.

I also hate that my own self-loathing is projected onto my poor unsuspecting husband. See, I don't think I do much right. And because of this, every single thing he says I hear as a criticism. Everything he does, I see as him pointing out that I didn't do it so he HAS to do it.

And that's so unfair. I don't feel that way about the lawn. I am GLAD he mows the lawn and I never, ever feel guilty that I don't do it myself.

So why, when he's sweeping the kitchen or making a snack for one of the girls do I feel like he's silently saying, "You're a loser, you can't do this right/on time/fast enough so I have to."

I hate that.

I hate that, at their ages, my girls are both still crappy sleepers. I hate that they both seem to think they can't fall asleep without me next to them, scratching one back, holding one hand and singing, singing, singing.

Yes, yes, it's lovely that they want me near them. It's adorable that they like to hear me sing and it's sweet that they like the comfort of my physical presence.

But OMG! Go to sleep already! I should be able to take them to THEIR room, put them in bed, tuck them in, maybe read a story or sing ONE song, kiss them good night and leave the damn room whether they are asleep or not.

But you know what really happens? We go upstairs, into MY room, they both lay down in MY bed, Olivia lays on my left arm, Alyssa holds my left hand, and I scratch Olivia's back with my right hand while singing song after song after song.

Once upon a time, Alyssa was in her own bed. Sure, it was a twin bed that was still in my room but it was her own bed. Sometime in the last few months, she's migrated back to my bed. And I'm sick of it. Sick to death of it.

I know I should have some kind of sleep-intervention, some kind of intensive sleep-training event where I bite the bullet, set down the rules and prepare myself for a few nights of tears and whining instead of coming here and bitching and moaning. I know that. I also know that in the end, it would be kinder to do that than to lie in bed each night, resentful that my little bit of quiet, alone time is being sucked into the past as I sing and scratch and hold.

But...I'm weak.

So I sing and I hold hands and I scratch. And then I seethe and I bitch and moan. Then I'm grouchy the next day and it all begins again.

I hate that too.