A day without laughter is a day wasted. –Charlie Chaplin

Sunday morning I woke up about 3:00. (I can see you’re jealous.) I laid in bed until I couldn’t stand it anymore and moved into the living room and flopped on the couch to play on the computer. Around 4:00 I heard a noise outside and decided to sneak to the window with my stealthy ninja skills to peek through the blind and see if I could see anyone out there.

I quietly set the keyboard aside and got up…and fell off the couch.


Matt laughed later and said he could hear the Mission Impossible music playing “Dadadaaaaa……dadadaaaaaa” then the music would stop and you would hear THUD! as I hit the floor.

(He’s so supportive.)

He laughed for twenty minutes.

Then we were driving around to flea markets (having given up on yard sales) and there was a realtor sign in the ground. I don’t remember the name of the company, only that I misread it as “Superhero lots for sale.”

I said, “Oh! We should buy that. Start a farm. Grow superveggies.”

He mumbled something about Jim Carrey.

I said, “Our doorbell will go ‘DA dada DAH!”

He spit on the windshield. (One point for me!)

I should tell you that I am the blind one in this relationship. I have no idea what my sight is without contacts, but it’s bad. Very, very bad. So I’m the one who misreads signs, buttons, teeny instructions on boxed food, etc.

But later that day he misread something.

“Wow. And you’re the one that’s supposed to have good eyes…”

(long pause)

“…like they do in Australia.”

He looked confused. “What?”

I smiled and waved, “G’day!”

He laughed, kissed my head and said, “You’re an idiot.”

All is well in Elisaland. ūüôā


I Just Want To Lie Down

ImageBeing a homemaker is nice. I like it. Except for the dishes. And folding laundry. Overall, I like it. Being half of an US is great. I like it. It’s more work than people tell you. It’s more work than you think. It’s definitely more work than you’re prepared for by your parents or school or life.

Being a mother is grand. If you have a uterus I highly recommend using it. If yours doesn’t work, you can adopt. No problem. Mothering is great. Motherhood is a blessing. Being a mom is…

…tiring and I want to lie down.

I had my daughter Abigail when I was forty. Well, forty and a¬†half. Don’t laugh. That half matters. I was that much older. I can’t speak for all women, but at that age I totally¬†underestimated¬†the effects of sleep deprivation. I hadn’t even considered the effects of endless nights of interrupted sleep. I also hadn’t counted on receiving an angel from Heaven who disliked sleep. I mean…who knew?

Of course I knew I’d be waking up with the baby. We’ve heard stores about those three o’clock feedings for years. I mean, even with a puppy you have to wake up every two hours. I get it.

I thought I got it.

After a few weeks with Abigail in our nest even Matt said “They tell you babies sleep eighteen hours a day, but they don’t tell you it’s in fifteen minute increments!”

Seriously? Oh. My. God.

I pressed onward, night after interrupted night, day after no sleep for me day, telling myself that soon she’ll sleep through the night; her naps would be longer during the day. I’d be able to lie down. Or wash dishes. Or shower. Or pee.

But as the months wore on the only one in our house getting any sleep was Matt. He used to joke about knowing how many times Abby was up at night by how many piles of¬†formula¬†were on the kitchen counter. When I stumbled into bed just as his alarm clock rang in the morning, he’d look at my mussed hair, my¬†closed¬†eyes and laugh. I was a living zombie.

I was about as cute and dressed just as well.

Months went past and I told myself to hang in there because she’s got to sleep through the night eventually, right? Any minute now….

But we had gotten Angel Abigail, Anti-Sleeper of her Mother’s Demise. She was just over sixteen months old when she slept all night. SIXTEEN MONTHS! And even then it was hit or miss for another four or five months. Just before her second birthday she was sleeping all night every night. Finally….

in OUR bed.

She’s three years, two months old now. She’s still sleeping in our bed. (She will sleep in her bed sometimes, but come in with us before morning, but mostly we just all pile in bed together and go to sleep.) And it’s been so long since I’ve had a solid nights sleep that I can’t sleep all night…even if no one needs me. Even if left to my own devices, I am awake every few hours.

I’m over forty-three and a half now…and I’m so tired. There are a few nights that I might have been able to sleep all night…but Abby had a bad dream…or called me in her sleep…or (now) the puppy barks.

Some of my friends are¬†fantasizing¬†about cruises, second honeymoons or the young guy who helped them with their groceries or who cleans their pool. Me? I just want some quiet, a big fluffy bed, and a world without alarm clocks, puppies, and “Whatcha doin? You sleepin;?”

Did I mention I just want to lie down?

And They Call It Puppy Luh-huh-huh-hove

[Apologies to Donny Osmond.]

Because we’re busy, because we can’t afford it, because we felt we needed a challenge or because we’re just¬†insane

One of those is the reason we got a puppy. I’m not sure which one exactly, but one of those.

The thing is? So far she’s awesome and has fit right in and she’s less like a pet and more like Matt and I had another baby. She is SO good tempered! She does puppy things, like chewing on your hand (because either that’s just what puppies do or because she can detect the lingering aroma of a Baconator) and trying to run off with whatever she can reach. But, really? She’s barked a high pitched feeble bark twice. Once because she pooped (or because she pooped and then ran out of things to do on her own and wanted someone to play with her) and once because she discovered she was too small to hop up on the couch on her own.

She hugs (HUGS!!) Abigail, plays with her, lets Abby feed her and, uh…pose her (don’t ask. Soon this may also involve purses and my dress shoes). She is sweet, friendly and so stinking CUTE.

We named her “River.” We drove up River Road to get her, the song on the radio said something about the river and today Matt told me it’s her soul’s name, trust him. And honestly? It seems to fit her. She also answers to it, which is something because the people we got her from were calling her “Daisy.” She’s not a Daisy.

She’s the Anti-Daisy.

[There. Now you know. The opposite of Daisy is River.]

Right now the only item of furniture she can sit on is the loveseat (it’s the same height as the couch??) so she laid on it next to me this morning and dozed while I watched the news. She’s so CUTE!

And we own a carpet cleaner, so all is well. ūüėÄ