Traditions
Lisa’s birthday is tomorrow and I can’t stop thinking about the night she came into our world. I’ve told the story so many times to her and Mariel, to friends, acquaintances, and readers that it has settled into our family history with its rough edges smoothed out and details softened. It’s become our tradition to tell our daughters the story of their births on their birthdays. This year I look forward to regaling Lisa’s boyfriend, Matt and perhaps even pulling out the video we have of our days-old baby girl cooing on her changing table. It’s a mother’s duty to embarrass her children. We do it as naturally as breathing.
I suppose this birthday-telling is as close to the ancient bards that we’ll ever get. It’s a song we’ve memorized. We have no pictures, no videos of the birth, just memories. Steve and I had no family in the area, no doting grandparents, anxious sisters or brothers, or waiting-in-the-wings aunts and uncles. We were alone on that December 26th evening not even knowing that Lisa would make her appearance the next morning, one week early. Since it was my first birth I didn’t understand that I was having contractions until they got stronger as evening approached.
It didn’t feel real. How could we possibly be having a baby when we still felt like babies ourselves? But Lisa didn’t care if we were ready, she was. We raced to Mt. Auburn hospital at 11:00 that cold, cold night and spent the rest of the night waiting for her highness to make her appearance. I’ll never forget my doctor, Mitch Levine, settling in on the window seat of my room prepared to spend the night until Lisa was ready.
She finally came at 8:00 in the morning, eyes so wide that Mitch asked, “What are you looking at Bright Eyes?” Our little Bright Eyes had finally arrived to wreak havoc in our world. But though the first months weren’t easy and there were too many times when I felt overwhelmed, scared, and confused, our lives adapted to her rhythms and before we could even blink a year had gone by. That’s when I began the tradition of decorating her, and later Mariel’s, room the night before their big days so that they would wake up to a birthday world.
Lisa and Matt will be coming over tonight to celebrate and since I could no longer decorate her room, I had decided to decorate the house. I took down yet another attic box and started digging. There were things that I remembered, balloons and banners, but when I unearthed the candles and games I sat back on my heels. You see another tradition we had was buying number candles for the birthday cakes. I had developed some sort of superstition about reusing the candles so between the two girls I had 47 years of candles stored away. I decided that next year we would begin recycling the numbers in the interest of saving money and the earth.
But it was the games that stopped me. Over the years we had held some ingenious parties for our girls. We were really boring in the early years, taking them and their friends to various gyms or restaurants, but as they grew so did our sense of adventure. One year we took Mariel’s friends to the Blue Hills for a nature hike and animal adventure. The educational director asked Mariel to choose a bird or animal in their zoo to be part of the presentation. Mariel chose a raccoon. Unfortunately the raccoon died before the party and we had to make up a story to tell her so that she could choose something else. Quilla the porcupine made a great understudy.
The best parties were the ones at our house. One that I had discovered in the box was our Game-Girl blowout. I sat there looking at a long list of planned games, a complete Jeopardy board, and a flow chart (could you tell that Steve was a computer programmer?) outlining the steps to a game that we had invented.
But our piece de résistance was the, “Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego” mystery adventure. We had recreated the popular PBS children’s geography show in our house. Steve played the host and I was the chief, decked out in a trench coat and a fedora. We gave the kids magnifying glasses, notepads, clues and almanacs to use as references. With the Rockapella CD blaring in the background, we set our detectives on a world journey to catch Interpol’s notorious thieves. It was a blast.
I sat there on the kitchen floor holding the clues in my hand aching for a time machine. But then I decided that instead of wallowing in tradition-nostalgia I would begin some new ones.
The funny thing is we had already begun without knowing it. The other day Lisa told me that she had introduced Matt to our sacred Sunday night Chinese dinner followed by the NPR show, “Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me.” I laughed to myself. It was truly a tradition to cherish.
This year we’re starting a new one for Lisa’s birthday—a sushi dinner at home in front of the fireplace. And for the first time, instead of racing out to order a cake, I’m baking one myself. But we’ll keep the pink roses and the Champagne. Certain traditions are worth holding onto.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
All I Want For Chanukah
All I Want For Chanukah
This year Chanukah has been the same, yet different. Usually the only thing that changes is the date. Since the Jewish calendar is a lunar one, the dates of all the Jewish holidays change from year to year. Somewhat like Goldilocks’ dilemma, sometimes they’re too early, sometimes too late, and sometimes just right. So there are years when Chanukah comes out at the end of December, or nicely in the middle of the month, and sometimes it appears at the end of November. One year when Lisa was in pre-school we celebrated Chanukah right after Thanksgiving. The kids had just finished learning about turkeys and Plymouth Rock when they began studying Judah Maccabee. Lisa came home and informed me that the pilgrims lit Chanukah menorahs. Sometimes it’s just way too early.
This year since the first night of Chanukah was on Friday night, Mariel excitedly told us that she would be able to come home. Her one problem was that her store manager had informed everyone that no one was allowed to take any vacation time until after Christmas. So she successfully called the employee-complaint hot line that her store had set up, to protest not being able to celebrate her holiday. She takes her Chanukah seriously!
Lisa called to tell me that she would be coming home Saturday night and asked if she could bring her boyfriend, Matt. That meant that we would have a nice full house. Knowing that my girls would be home for the week-end gave my spirits a much needed lift.
Like most people these days we’re watching our budget. This year though we wouldn’t be buying any flat-screen TV’s or vacation packages, I wanted to give the girls small gifts. That was how Chanukah was always traditionally celebrated--- with family, food and chocolate coins for playing the dreidel game. We have our own tradition when it comes to chocolate. Though I do buy milk chocolate chocolate coins to fill our plastic dreidels I also stock up on Godivas. That’s one thing I didn’t change.
I also fulfilled another family tradition. I bought too many boxes of Chanukah candles. Every year because we light several menorahs each night, I’m always sure that I’m going to run out so I buy extra candles. Then I come home to find that I already had fifty boxes in our Chanukah box in the attic. Every year I swear that I will not buy more candles and then every year I do. Some things never change.
This was the year that I finally emptied out the Chanukah box. I have too many heavy-duty plastic storage containers in the attic, two of which are dedicated to the trappings of Chanukah and Passover. They’re mostly filled with all of the holiday decorations that Lisa and Mariel had created in kindergarten and religious school. Our Chanukah container was crammed with colored posters, pasted collages, Judah Maccabees made out of various household items, and deidels. When the kids were little I would decorate the house like a crazy person. I hung banners and dreidels, flags and pictures. I also had plastic menorahs and latkes to stick on the windows ….. talk about tacky. I also created a display in the entry way that included stuffed Chanukah bears (don’t ask!) and menorahs. I hadn’t decorated for years but I couldn’t throw out anything those little hands had created. But this year was different.
Mariel and I went through the box laughing hysterically at all the glittery junk. We saved whatever she wanted and held onto a few things for Lisa to look through. I saved one menorah that Lisa had created when she was about three years old. She had made it out of a wooden paint stirrer, metal bolts, and tons of glitter. We also saved some of the books. It felt great to finally see the bottom of that box. In April we’ll attack the Passover container.
Every year, even though I always look through every potato pancake recipe that appears in the paper, I never really vary how we make our latkes. There really isn’t that much you can change in a recipe whose basic ingredients are potatoes, eggs, salt and flour (and an onion for anyone with the slightest bit of taste, Shatz!) but this year I found an interesting twist. Evidently one grandmother soaked the grated potatoes in ice-water to ensure that the latkes came out really crispy. You see the crispy latke is the holy grail of potato pancake-dom so you always soak every bit of moisture out of the potato mixture before you fry it.
Intrigued I decided to try the cold water bath, though Mariel cast a dubious eye on the ice floating on top of our precious potatoes. Well they were dry all right, so dry that they almost wouldn’t stick together no matter how many eggs I added. Perhaps next year we’ll use a little less ice.
The kids’ present requests were different this year as well. The girls outdid themselves in practicality requesting socks, long underwear, a new computer to replace one that was dying and help with tuition. Where oh where did I go so…....right? That was my gift this year because all I really wanted was for our family to be grateful for what they already had--each other. May that always remain the same.
This year Chanukah has been the same, yet different. Usually the only thing that changes is the date. Since the Jewish calendar is a lunar one, the dates of all the Jewish holidays change from year to year. Somewhat like Goldilocks’ dilemma, sometimes they’re too early, sometimes too late, and sometimes just right. So there are years when Chanukah comes out at the end of December, or nicely in the middle of the month, and sometimes it appears at the end of November. One year when Lisa was in pre-school we celebrated Chanukah right after Thanksgiving. The kids had just finished learning about turkeys and Plymouth Rock when they began studying Judah Maccabee. Lisa came home and informed me that the pilgrims lit Chanukah menorahs. Sometimes it’s just way too early.
This year since the first night of Chanukah was on Friday night, Mariel excitedly told us that she would be able to come home. Her one problem was that her store manager had informed everyone that no one was allowed to take any vacation time until after Christmas. So she successfully called the employee-complaint hot line that her store had set up, to protest not being able to celebrate her holiday. She takes her Chanukah seriously!
Lisa called to tell me that she would be coming home Saturday night and asked if she could bring her boyfriend, Matt. That meant that we would have a nice full house. Knowing that my girls would be home for the week-end gave my spirits a much needed lift.
Like most people these days we’re watching our budget. This year though we wouldn’t be buying any flat-screen TV’s or vacation packages, I wanted to give the girls small gifts. That was how Chanukah was always traditionally celebrated--- with family, food and chocolate coins for playing the dreidel game. We have our own tradition when it comes to chocolate. Though I do buy milk chocolate chocolate coins to fill our plastic dreidels I also stock up on Godivas. That’s one thing I didn’t change.
I also fulfilled another family tradition. I bought too many boxes of Chanukah candles. Every year because we light several menorahs each night, I’m always sure that I’m going to run out so I buy extra candles. Then I come home to find that I already had fifty boxes in our Chanukah box in the attic. Every year I swear that I will not buy more candles and then every year I do. Some things never change.
This was the year that I finally emptied out the Chanukah box. I have too many heavy-duty plastic storage containers in the attic, two of which are dedicated to the trappings of Chanukah and Passover. They’re mostly filled with all of the holiday decorations that Lisa and Mariel had created in kindergarten and religious school. Our Chanukah container was crammed with colored posters, pasted collages, Judah Maccabees made out of various household items, and deidels. When the kids were little I would decorate the house like a crazy person. I hung banners and dreidels, flags and pictures. I also had plastic menorahs and latkes to stick on the windows ….. talk about tacky. I also created a display in the entry way that included stuffed Chanukah bears (don’t ask!) and menorahs. I hadn’t decorated for years but I couldn’t throw out anything those little hands had created. But this year was different.
Mariel and I went through the box laughing hysterically at all the glittery junk. We saved whatever she wanted and held onto a few things for Lisa to look through. I saved one menorah that Lisa had created when she was about three years old. She had made it out of a wooden paint stirrer, metal bolts, and tons of glitter. We also saved some of the books. It felt great to finally see the bottom of that box. In April we’ll attack the Passover container.
Every year, even though I always look through every potato pancake recipe that appears in the paper, I never really vary how we make our latkes. There really isn’t that much you can change in a recipe whose basic ingredients are potatoes, eggs, salt and flour (and an onion for anyone with the slightest bit of taste, Shatz!) but this year I found an interesting twist. Evidently one grandmother soaked the grated potatoes in ice-water to ensure that the latkes came out really crispy. You see the crispy latke is the holy grail of potato pancake-dom so you always soak every bit of moisture out of the potato mixture before you fry it.
Intrigued I decided to try the cold water bath, though Mariel cast a dubious eye on the ice floating on top of our precious potatoes. Well they were dry all right, so dry that they almost wouldn’t stick together no matter how many eggs I added. Perhaps next year we’ll use a little less ice.
The kids’ present requests were different this year as well. The girls outdid themselves in practicality requesting socks, long underwear, a new computer to replace one that was dying and help with tuition. Where oh where did I go so…....right? That was my gift this year because all I really wanted was for our family to be grateful for what they already had--each other. May that always remain the same.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
The Greatest Gift
The Greatest Gift
Lately I’ve begun feeling overwhelmed. There’s nothing I can really do about my situation right now so I walk around feeling helpless. I can’t even escape when I sleep. I either dream about driving a car whose steering and brakes are broken causing me to careen wildly, or I wander through streets that look familiar but are strange combinations of different cities that I’ve lived in. I walk and walk, always at night, and always finding that I have lost my way, my wallet and my phone. I don’t need a psychiatrist to tell me that I’m feeling out of control.
In the midst of all this I met a friend that I hadn’t seen in a while and began complaining about a cold that I thought I was catching. She answered that she couldn’t afford to get sick since her 22 year old daughter was going through chemotherapy rendering her immune system nonexistent. She went on to tell me that a few months ago her beautiful daughter had been diagnosed with breast cancer. My ridiculous complaints sat in my throat like ashes as she told me what she and her family had been going through since this horrible disease had moved into their lives. All I could do was listen and hold her hand and try not to cry.
I can’t stop thinking about her. I keep hoping that I will develop a sense of perspective that will shake me out of my fog. But someone else’s misfortune never makes yours lighter. In fact it makes you feel even worse since now, not only are you not feeling better, but you feel that you have no right to your silly problems. Adding guilt to a situation never improves it.
Work is partly responsible for my bad attitude. I spent last year in a honeymoon daze of euphoria. I even wrote a column about the community center family and how I was aching to become a trusted part of it. Last year I managed to get the school working, hiring good teachers and building trust among the students. It was a heady experience.
This year the first chips appeared. I had succeeded in becoming a part of the center family only to discover that it was in danger of imploding. Last year I had seen the brightly painted outside, this year I could trace the cracks. Everyone seems to be angry with everyone else. Trust and camaraderie are gone. And then because I’m a neutral party (or as my boss Mike calls me, Switzerland) everyone has been coming to me to complain. So once again I listen and nod my head saying little but getting sadder with each word.
I thought at least the school was doing well but then my class began changing. Whereas last year I had the same students all year, this year my class seems to turnover every week. Trying to teach a musical-chairs-class is not easy. You’re never sure who was there when you taught what and you’re always repeating yourself or leaving someone in the dark. Plus the class demographic has also changed. I’ve gone from teaching mostly middle aged women to young, restless men in their teens and twenties. These guys pick things up more quickly and get bored more easily. By the end of three hours I’m ready to crawl into bed.
And the cherry on top? My best teacher is leaving for a better job. Greg has taught GED for over 20 years. He is a master. I’ve posted the job for two weeks now but it isn’t easy finding one person who can teach top level literacy and math. Crying is beginning to look good to me right now.
My favorite day of the week has become Friday and not just because it’s my day off. A couple of months ago Steve told me that he was going to start cooking dinner one day a week. I was thrilled. We decided that Friday would be best since I spend my entire day running errands, and not having to cook dinner that day would be wonderful. So now he researches recipes on-line and I look forward to a new dish every week. It is heaven. Not having to do everything myself, to have someone offer help without my having to ask for it—is the greatest gift that anyone can receive.
And then I remember all the times that Mariel has walked the dog and vacuumed and baked, and when Lisa has cleaned and cooked and Steve has filled my car with gas, or fixed something that was broken, or picked up my library books and cleaning, and I realize that these are the gifts that I cherish and never forget—the unasked for blessings. These are what lift my heart. And then yesterday Mariel gave me a magnet that said: “I am fairly certain that given a cape and a nice tiara I could save the world.” She said that the minute she saw it she knew it was me. And suddenly a bit of the fog lifted.
I can’t save the world on my own. I need friends and family who happily give me their time and their love. I need whimsy and humor to keep me grounded and perhaps a cape to help me fly. And tomorrow I’m going to buy myself a tiara.
Lately I’ve begun feeling overwhelmed. There’s nothing I can really do about my situation right now so I walk around feeling helpless. I can’t even escape when I sleep. I either dream about driving a car whose steering and brakes are broken causing me to careen wildly, or I wander through streets that look familiar but are strange combinations of different cities that I’ve lived in. I walk and walk, always at night, and always finding that I have lost my way, my wallet and my phone. I don’t need a psychiatrist to tell me that I’m feeling out of control.
In the midst of all this I met a friend that I hadn’t seen in a while and began complaining about a cold that I thought I was catching. She answered that she couldn’t afford to get sick since her 22 year old daughter was going through chemotherapy rendering her immune system nonexistent. She went on to tell me that a few months ago her beautiful daughter had been diagnosed with breast cancer. My ridiculous complaints sat in my throat like ashes as she told me what she and her family had been going through since this horrible disease had moved into their lives. All I could do was listen and hold her hand and try not to cry.
I can’t stop thinking about her. I keep hoping that I will develop a sense of perspective that will shake me out of my fog. But someone else’s misfortune never makes yours lighter. In fact it makes you feel even worse since now, not only are you not feeling better, but you feel that you have no right to your silly problems. Adding guilt to a situation never improves it.
Work is partly responsible for my bad attitude. I spent last year in a honeymoon daze of euphoria. I even wrote a column about the community center family and how I was aching to become a trusted part of it. Last year I managed to get the school working, hiring good teachers and building trust among the students. It was a heady experience.
This year the first chips appeared. I had succeeded in becoming a part of the center family only to discover that it was in danger of imploding. Last year I had seen the brightly painted outside, this year I could trace the cracks. Everyone seems to be angry with everyone else. Trust and camaraderie are gone. And then because I’m a neutral party (or as my boss Mike calls me, Switzerland) everyone has been coming to me to complain. So once again I listen and nod my head saying little but getting sadder with each word.
I thought at least the school was doing well but then my class began changing. Whereas last year I had the same students all year, this year my class seems to turnover every week. Trying to teach a musical-chairs-class is not easy. You’re never sure who was there when you taught what and you’re always repeating yourself or leaving someone in the dark. Plus the class demographic has also changed. I’ve gone from teaching mostly middle aged women to young, restless men in their teens and twenties. These guys pick things up more quickly and get bored more easily. By the end of three hours I’m ready to crawl into bed.
And the cherry on top? My best teacher is leaving for a better job. Greg has taught GED for over 20 years. He is a master. I’ve posted the job for two weeks now but it isn’t easy finding one person who can teach top level literacy and math. Crying is beginning to look good to me right now.
My favorite day of the week has become Friday and not just because it’s my day off. A couple of months ago Steve told me that he was going to start cooking dinner one day a week. I was thrilled. We decided that Friday would be best since I spend my entire day running errands, and not having to cook dinner that day would be wonderful. So now he researches recipes on-line and I look forward to a new dish every week. It is heaven. Not having to do everything myself, to have someone offer help without my having to ask for it—is the greatest gift that anyone can receive.
And then I remember all the times that Mariel has walked the dog and vacuumed and baked, and when Lisa has cleaned and cooked and Steve has filled my car with gas, or fixed something that was broken, or picked up my library books and cleaning, and I realize that these are the gifts that I cherish and never forget—the unasked for blessings. These are what lift my heart. And then yesterday Mariel gave me a magnet that said: “I am fairly certain that given a cape and a nice tiara I could save the world.” She said that the minute she saw it she knew it was me. And suddenly a bit of the fog lifted.
I can’t save the world on my own. I need friends and family who happily give me their time and their love. I need whimsy and humor to keep me grounded and perhaps a cape to help me fly. And tomorrow I’m going to buy myself a tiara.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
A Cold By Any Other Name
A Cold By Any Other Name
It’s been one of those weeks where you start out tired and then go downhill from there. Friends look at you and ask if you’ve got the flu and even when you tell them that you’re just really tired, they still back away. That kind of week.
We never really had a chance to rest during Thanksgiving and then Steve caught a bad cold. I always know that he’s sick when he starts giving me air kisses. When he pecks me somewhere in the vicinity of a cheek I know that he’s trying not to give me what he’s caught. So even though we live in the same house, breathing the same air and sleeping in the same bed he’s sure that it’s the kiss that will surely get me. I hate air kissing my husband.
We’ve been washing our hands more than Lady Macbeth and have been wearing garlic around our necks and yet some nasty bug still managed to find Steve. And then on Sunday night I could feel my throat begin to feel funny. So I came home on Monday night, made dinner and got into bed obscenely early so that I could get enough rest to face the rest of the week.
There was one problem though. Though Steve usually snores, a combination of sleeping on his left side, taping those cute little butterfly-looking-thingies to his nose and an occasional shove from me usually solves the problem. But this time Steve’s sinuses were so clogged that his normal snoring escalated to a decibel level that requires people in the area to wear protective headgear. Those butterflies were absolutely useless and no amount of jabbing was going to get me any peace and quiet.
Add to that the fact that in between the snoring he was also coughing and you can understand why I was ready to cry. I jolted awake at the first nasal explosion and wracking cough, (snoring+coughing=snoughing?) saw that he was already on his left side and knew that this time even jabbing wouldn’t help. When I related this later to my friend, Kate she looked at me quizzically and asked, “And you didn’t just put a pillow over his face?”
No I didn’t have the heart although I knew that no female jury in the world would have convicted me.
I knew that I would have to do something desperate if I wanted to get any sleep. Suddenly I remembered that there were empty beds in my kids’ rooms that I could use so I took my pillow, blanket and alarm clock and headed off to sleep exile. I closed my door but I could still hear the rumbling, so I got up and closed his door as well. When I put the pillow over my head the snoring finally receded to a sleepable level. Of course by then I was so cranky that even Lisa’s ticking clock drove me nuts but I was not about to get out of bed again.
Eventually after tossing and turning like a pancake I managed to fall asleep. Then at 2:00 in the morning I was awakened by a coyote stampede in the house. Heart beating wildly I bolted out of bed when I suddenly realized that it was Snoopy alternately throwing himself against the bedroom door and clawing at it. He must have woken up and sensed that I was in Lisa’s bed. You see he’s not allowed in our bed but the kids invite him into theirs. So whenever there’s a warm body in either of their beds he feels entitled to a share of the mattress. I opened the door and he rushed into the room as if he was being chased by hyenas. He leapt into my bed and began his round and round settling in ritual.
“Hey!” I yelled at him. “Settle down and stay at the end of the bed or I’ll throw you out”. I so terrified the poor thing that he immediately dropped and was quiet for the rest of the night. I think I managed to fall asleep a half hour before the 5:00 alarm rang. It was going to be a long day.
When Shatz heard what my night had been like he decided that he would sleep downstairs until he felt better. I wanted to protest but I’m ashamed to say that I wanted a good night’s sleep even more. So that night Steve slept on the downstairs couch and I slept the sleep of the dead. It was wonderful. What is not so wonderful is that it’s been four nights now that I’ve been sleeping alone. Even Snoopy has left me, preferring to stay downstairs next to the couch where my poor husband manages to trip over him every night on the way to the bath room.
Every night I turn in early and wake up after a few hours to see that Steve’s side is still empty. Even though I know that he’s downstairs I’m still lonely. Every morning I ask him how he’s feeling in the hopes that he’ll return to our bed that night but he’s still snoughing. I hope he feels better soon because one night, snoughing or not, he’s going to wake up and find me on the other side of his couch. There’s just so much lonely sleep that a girl can stand.
It’s been one of those weeks where you start out tired and then go downhill from there. Friends look at you and ask if you’ve got the flu and even when you tell them that you’re just really tired, they still back away. That kind of week.
We never really had a chance to rest during Thanksgiving and then Steve caught a bad cold. I always know that he’s sick when he starts giving me air kisses. When he pecks me somewhere in the vicinity of a cheek I know that he’s trying not to give me what he’s caught. So even though we live in the same house, breathing the same air and sleeping in the same bed he’s sure that it’s the kiss that will surely get me. I hate air kissing my husband.
We’ve been washing our hands more than Lady Macbeth and have been wearing garlic around our necks and yet some nasty bug still managed to find Steve. And then on Sunday night I could feel my throat begin to feel funny. So I came home on Monday night, made dinner and got into bed obscenely early so that I could get enough rest to face the rest of the week.
There was one problem though. Though Steve usually snores, a combination of sleeping on his left side, taping those cute little butterfly-looking-thingies to his nose and an occasional shove from me usually solves the problem. But this time Steve’s sinuses were so clogged that his normal snoring escalated to a decibel level that requires people in the area to wear protective headgear. Those butterflies were absolutely useless and no amount of jabbing was going to get me any peace and quiet.
Add to that the fact that in between the snoring he was also coughing and you can understand why I was ready to cry. I jolted awake at the first nasal explosion and wracking cough, (snoring+coughing=snoughing?) saw that he was already on his left side and knew that this time even jabbing wouldn’t help. When I related this later to my friend, Kate she looked at me quizzically and asked, “And you didn’t just put a pillow over his face?”
No I didn’t have the heart although I knew that no female jury in the world would have convicted me.
I knew that I would have to do something desperate if I wanted to get any sleep. Suddenly I remembered that there were empty beds in my kids’ rooms that I could use so I took my pillow, blanket and alarm clock and headed off to sleep exile. I closed my door but I could still hear the rumbling, so I got up and closed his door as well. When I put the pillow over my head the snoring finally receded to a sleepable level. Of course by then I was so cranky that even Lisa’s ticking clock drove me nuts but I was not about to get out of bed again.
Eventually after tossing and turning like a pancake I managed to fall asleep. Then at 2:00 in the morning I was awakened by a coyote stampede in the house. Heart beating wildly I bolted out of bed when I suddenly realized that it was Snoopy alternately throwing himself against the bedroom door and clawing at it. He must have woken up and sensed that I was in Lisa’s bed. You see he’s not allowed in our bed but the kids invite him into theirs. So whenever there’s a warm body in either of their beds he feels entitled to a share of the mattress. I opened the door and he rushed into the room as if he was being chased by hyenas. He leapt into my bed and began his round and round settling in ritual.
“Hey!” I yelled at him. “Settle down and stay at the end of the bed or I’ll throw you out”. I so terrified the poor thing that he immediately dropped and was quiet for the rest of the night. I think I managed to fall asleep a half hour before the 5:00 alarm rang. It was going to be a long day.
When Shatz heard what my night had been like he decided that he would sleep downstairs until he felt better. I wanted to protest but I’m ashamed to say that I wanted a good night’s sleep even more. So that night Steve slept on the downstairs couch and I slept the sleep of the dead. It was wonderful. What is not so wonderful is that it’s been four nights now that I’ve been sleeping alone. Even Snoopy has left me, preferring to stay downstairs next to the couch where my poor husband manages to trip over him every night on the way to the bath room.
Every night I turn in early and wake up after a few hours to see that Steve’s side is still empty. Even though I know that he’s downstairs I’m still lonely. Every morning I ask him how he’s feeling in the hopes that he’ll return to our bed that night but he’s still snoughing. I hope he feels better soon because one night, snoughing or not, he’s going to wake up and find me on the other side of his couch. There’s just so much lonely sleep that a girl can stand.
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