Tuesday, January 27, 2015

If You Love Me, Let Me Sleep

Irritating habits.  We all have them.  I mean, I don’t; but you all do.  I’m certain that it is completely endearing that I interrupt people when they are talking or blurt out obscenities at inappropriate times.  I know everyone loves that I talk non-stop, and that I worry about everything, catastrophically over-think each situation, talk about my dogs all the time, whine, and roll my eyes a lot.
I’m basically a thirteen year old.  See?  Adorable.

Probably my most annoying thing is my hatred of mornings, or at least it’s the worst as far as Mr. B is concerned.  People told me growing up that the real world would be a rude awakening to me and that eventually I would grow to be a morning person.  Well, not everyone.  While I was pregnant, one person rudely said, How do you think you are ever going to hear your baby crying when you can’t even hear your alarm?”  But I digress.

The thing is, my body and brain want to stay awake until 2:00am and then sleep until 11:00am.  The real world doesn’t work that way.  And everyone was right, it is rude.  I feel like mornings could probably come at a much more convenient time.  I act as a responsible adult on weekdays, and am often out of bed before Mr. B.  On days I go to work, I function with the help of mass amounts of coffee, and get where I need to be on time.  On mornings I need to go to the gym, I have coffee after my workout -- because I'd rather not have my coffee kick in while I'm squatting, if you know what I mean -- and I'm generally a few minutes late.
In Good Company: If you love me, let me sleep
I do not own the rights to this image.

Weekends are another story.  My perfect Sunday does not include a bra.  It does, however, include sleeping until 11:00, taking an afternoon nap, staying in my pajamas until it’s time to put on a new pair, and not brushing my teeth until bedtime.  Lazy and disgusting?  Yes.  Wonderful?  Oh yes.

In Good Company: If you love me, let me sleep
When I woke up from a Sunday nap to find Mr. B had taken
my one pop for the week.  This is the text he received.

Mr. B is a morning person.  7:30 is sleeping in as far as he is concerned.  This drives. me. insane.  Particularly because he begins talking the minute he wakes up.  And he’s so effing motivated.  This isn’t a bad thing, persay.  It’s just that I would much prefer to talk about important things or start ripping out cabinets at, say, 4pm.  But, Saturday mornings roll around and he’s all, Hey babe!  I have some ideas I want to bounce off you!”  And I’m all, I have some bricks I’d like to bounce off you right now.”  Or he says, Get up, I need your help outside,” and I reply with, I hate outside.  That is absolutely the worst possible way to try to get me out of this bed.”  He says, Come on, babe.  Get up.”  I say, If you really loved me, you would let me sleep.”

In Good Company: If you love me, let me sleep
I do not own the rights to this image.

I don't fantasize about male models or actors,  No, my fantasies come in the form of thinking about how wonderful it would be to go to sleep one night a month, and wake up on my own without anyone bothering me.

Even Little K is well aware of my need for 15 hours of sleep a day on the weekends.  I recently heard him say, Daddy, don’t wake Mommy up!  It will hurt her feelings!”  And that is how he got a pony.  Not a real pony of course.  Okay, I didn’t get him a pony at all – because, while he didn’t want Mr. B to wake me up, he has no idea what it means to let someone sleep (or poop) in peace.

Unfortunately, Little K seems to have inherited Mr. B’s sleep gene.  Sort of.  On Saturdays and Sundays he is up with bright eyes by 7:30, no matter what time he went to bed.  During the week, I have to drag his limp sleeping body out of bed at 7:00 (even after having gone to bed at 7:30 the night before) so he can sit and stare at his breakfast for 30 minutes while bitching about being hungry but not being able to eat because of something catastrophic like, you know, chapped lips, a hangnail, begging dogs, or lack of Ninja Turtle socks.  He’s five years old and I still have to dress him for school while he wobbles around like a drunken fraternity boy and begs to go back to bed.  I can’t even get mad at him – he’s speaking my language.

I think I am so resistant to being vertical on the weekends because I know that Mr. B is home.  I can rest and know that he’s got things taken care of – because he’s remarkable (and handsome, but that’s not really on topic).  After spending all week running hundreds of errands, driving a mom taxi, cleaning the house, cooking, taking care of everything household-related, working out, etc; it's nice to know that someone else has got this.

Caffeine is the only way around my morning loathing.  Mass amounts of coffee.  Mr. B and Little K have both learned that the promise of good coffee is the best way to raise me from that deep sleep I can only settle into on weekend mornings.  Little K whispered softly one recent Saturday, Daddy and I are going to get donuts.  Can we bring you a coffee?”  Yes please!”  Extra shot of ‘spresso?”  You know it.  Don’t forget.”  I won’t.  I’ll tell Daddy.”

In Good Company: If you love me, let me sleep
I do not own the rights to this image.

So, I guess I’m in the market for a pony now.

Like this post?  Try these:
Girdles a.k.a. The 9th Level of Hell


  1. I love you hahahahahaha-Lindsay

  2. My kindergartener loves pushing buttons on my Verismo and considers it a reward to make me my weekend coffee!


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