About Me

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Five years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!

Monday, September 24, 2012

Rusty. And at least one other dwarf you never heard of.

There is a reason women my age don’t get pregnant. Beloved and his youngest grandson are fishing this morning. The plan was for M the Marauder to spend the night camped out on our living room floor so the boys could get up way earlier than dark-thirty and head to a friend’s and thence to the lake.

Family prayer? check.
Last drink of water? check.
Last trip to the loo? check.

First there was the drumming on the Captain America shield. I went out and explained, politely and firmly, that if it continued, I would be taking up the shield until morning, because I have to go to work, and I needed to get to sleep, and if I don’t get enough sleep I get cranky.

Then there was the crying, which I just managed to hear over the hissing of my CPAP. So I went out to investigate, talked a little, listened a lot, sang a few songs, and he still missed his brothers and sister and mom and dad and wanted to go home. I went back and rousted Beloved and told him it was his turn.

Upshot was that M’s mom drove back down here and retrieved him, and one or the other parental unit brought him back this morning, and the boys are off fishing, and instead of falling asleep around 9:30 as planned, I was awake until nearly midnight (for the third night in a row, but at least the other two nights were fun).

And I want to pay a couple of bills this morning, but I have no idea where the check blanks might be, and I got maybe four hours of sleep (because the alarm went off earlier than usual) and I am well and truly cranky. I took a melatonin last night, my first, and I don’t know if it was that or the pork and beans at dinner, but my ankles started itching suspiciously, so I slathered them with eczema cream, nuked a mug of milk, and came back to bed.

I feel as if I had been stuffed in a bag and beaten with a baseball bat. My eyes ache, my joints are stiff. Beloved did not sleep well; ergo I did not sleep well, and I finally understand why the husbands and wives in 1960s sitcoms slept in separate beds but that is not an option.

And I realized, halfway in, that I had begun the final round of increases on the waist shaping, one round too soon. I just said to heck with it (more or less) and forged on ahead.

It’s gonna be a Cherry Coke day.

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