January 11, 2011
First day back to teaching for me and Stephen.
High school for Emily.
All things considered then, the morning wasn't as bad as it could have been.
Stephen was cogent enough to be able to drive.
Although he doesn't particularly fancy the morning traffic at Regent and Prospect, so I expect that the morning commute will fall, again, under my To Do list.
Keith was up 20 minutes before we had to leave, ready and raring to go.
But Em. . . .
Em is clearly the recipient of some toxic genetic mix that simply prevents her from being remotely tolerable in the morning.
I started at 5.30 am, the first of two wake up calls.
Turned the light on.
Saw movement in the lower left leg.
A twitch of a toe, I think.
All she was willing to do to signal that she had heard my clarion call, and was thinking about getting out of bed.
She had 30 minutes.
At 6.00 am I returned to her room to see her in the same position, but with one, slight change.
To shield her fragile eyes and her even more fragile state of mind, she had pulled her housecoat from under the sleeping Reilley, and had placed it over her head.
But there is nothing that can protect her from her mother's determination and will to get that child out of bed.
She was in the bathroom by 6.15 am.
Crabby, miserable, suffering from an all out malaise. . .
But she was up.
I get that she isn't a morning person.
What I don't get is the continued struggle to get out of bed.
She has to.
Accept it.
Embrace it.
Do it.
Save yourself the pain and indignity of listening to your mother sing at you,
"Get up, get up, it's time to get up" over and over again.
What was unexpected was the disquieting and disconcerting activity among our four legged companions last evening.
For reasons unbeknownst to either Stephen or myself, Tikka, Frankie and Goblet would not settle last night.
At.
All.
Frankie was in and out of room so often we thought there was revolving door.
Quiet one minute.
The next, the click and clack of his toenails as he wandered the upstairs hallway.
Followed by the whining at the threshold of our bedroom door.
Tikka must have laid on every particle of our bedroom floor last evening.
She could not get comfortable, find a place to lay, rest her head.
And she isn't quiet about it.
She sighs.
Loudly.
She throws herself on the floor.
Loudly.
She takes over Frankie's pillow.
Happily.
Goblet's new collar contains one dangling bell, and when she walks, very occasionally runs, licks herself with reckless abandon at the top of the stairs for all to see, blinks, breathes, her bell hits her "I've had my rabies shot" tag, creates a less than melodious ringing.
I've taken to calling her Jingle Bells.
Or Bo Jangles.
Depends on the day.
She was non-stop last night.
Like she was on a merry-go-round and she couldn't get off.
Loud sighing, petulant whining, unmelodious jingling, clicking and clacking toe nails, periodic throwing of canine chassis on the floor. . . .
Not somnolentt sounds.
2.00 am and I'm thinking that locking them all in Frankie's crate would be quieter.
We tried several things to bring peace to our cadre of calamity.
Nothing worked.
By 3.30, exhausted, frustrated and still clueless about the cause of this early morning catastrophe, we gave in.
Tikka on Frankie's pillow.
Frankie on our bed.
Goblet sucking Stephen's earlobes.
Giving me two hours of uninterrupted sleep.
It will be a very long day.
And tonight, those four legged furry critters will have a quiet night.
Even if I have to drug them.
I am not above that.
At all.
My brother and his wife gave us a three month subscription to Netflix.
Oh!
My!
Gawd!
Because I so need more distractions.
NETFLIX!
Movies! Television!
Commercial free, no time-outs or buffering issues.
I may not get anything done for the next three months.
But I'll watch everything Netflix has to offer.
Whether I like it or not.
Just because I can.
Title Lyric: Pets by Porno for Pyros
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