Scary, Angry, Tinkle-Monster Mommy

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Scary Mommy1I was 17 months pregnant at the time and HUGE. When I say HUGE, I mean the HUGE like I’m having twins but there’s really only one baby in there. HUGE like I have cankles on my cankles. HUGE like I haven’t seen parts of my body for… well… a long time.

At that point of my pregnancies, my natural desire for large quantities of sleep was magnified (times one thousand!). I normally subsist on nine hours of sleep. That’s my minimum. Less than nine and I’m not in my sweet spot. Let’s just say pregnancy, with all of its calls from nature, had a tendency to disrupt my groove. That combined with the fact that my oldest son has never truly needed much sleep proved to be a recipe for disaster.

I tried, oh sweet mercy how I tried, to get him to sleep long hours when he was little. My mom used to tease me when I brought room darkening shades with me to her house on a visit. I’d darken the room, plug in white noise fans, perfectly soften his pack-n-play, and insist on a rigid sleep schedule all for his sake my love of sleep.

So, the fateful night my oldest son (age four at the time) decided to wake me several times before 7 a.m. went down like this.

I had been in bed for approximately 13 seconds when the first interruption came.

“Moooooooom,” he beckoned from the top of the stairs. “I caaaaan’t sleep.”

I rolled myself to my back, inserted the pry bar beneath my back to acquire enough leverage to lift myself off the bed, and sat for a minute.

“Mooooom,” he repeated. “Did you hear me? I can’t sleep.”

I inserted the knuckle of my right pointer finger in my mouth and bit down gingerly. It’s a technique I’d come to master after losing my patience one too many times. Bite, don’t fight.

“Yes buddy, I’m coming,” I mustered in my most patient mommy voice.

Now, those of you who have also been 17 months pregnant know that your bladder is pretty much leaking urine all the time. So, upon waking from my mini-slumber, I went to hit the pot. Quick movements weren’t my forte at the time so as I was sitting on the loo, my sweet cherub continued to beckon me.

“Moooooooooooooooooooooooom,” he pleaded. “Where are youuuuuuuuuuuuuu??”

I finished my business, rearranged my tent-like pajamas, and made my first ascent up Mt. Stairwell. The first of many for the evening.

I gently ushered my son back to his bed, tucked him in, rubbed his back, sang him a short song, and kissed his sweaty forehead.

“Night, Mom,” he offered.

Yeah. Right.

I headed back to my room with visions of downy pillows dancing in my head. I heaved myself up on our king-sized mattress, positioned my humdrum hiney happily in the spot where the baby wouldn’t push directly on my lungs and bladder simultaneously. I exhaled as my son stealthily made his way for interruption number two.

Repeat scene above. Yes, I went to the bathroom again. This went on about two more times before I finally lost it. Pregnancy had taken its toll. The Scary, Angry, Tinkle-Monster Mommy was born.

Time stamp – 2:30 a.m.

monsterfeetI hadn’t moved as quickly in months as I did that moment. I seemingly levitated off our bed, floated down the hallway and up the stairs. My son was obviously taken aback as he witnessed his 17-month-pregnant mother travel through the space-time continuum. At first I wasn’t there… and then I was… and he knew he should be scared.

I gripped my son by his shoulders and in one foul swoop, delivered him directly to the La-Z-Boy chair in the corner of our loft. I was making inhuman noises through all orifices. I’m sure I was glowing in the dark and had smoke coming out of my ears.

“Do you see THIS?” I questioned as I pointed directly at the fully gestated babe still taking residence in my uterus.

His eyes, now the size of saucers, dared not blink.

“I can not do this any more. I am tired and I am huge. I can’t keep coming up here all night long! I NEED SLEEP!” I seethed through clenched teeth. And then, it happened.

I leaked.

In my haste, I had forgotten to hit the potty before hauling myself upstairs. It started as a little dribble and ended up as a full-blown accident.

He looked at me with questioning eyes, paused, and then laughed. I debated as to whether or not I should also laugh or continue with my mad-woman’s rant. I gave in and laughed too and put him back in bed. And he slept.

You see, parenthood has this amazing way of keeping us humble. I was bound and determined to teach my son a lesson. His incessant waking was breaking me and I was exhausted. However, as God would have it, parenthood has never been about me. It’s about meeting needs, being flexible and forgiving, patient and pliable, trustworthy and… tired. I’ve discovered parenthood, above most other things, is wrapped up in a big bundle of exhaustion. Sweet, lovely, and blissful exhaustion.

What’s your best midnight story? Surely someone else out there has had at least one???!!

1 COMMENT

  1. Rolling with laughter over here, Marti! (Coming from someone who knows what it’s like to have cankles on her cankles.) Here’s to sleep again, someday! 😉

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