January 29, 2012
Stephen + Dawne + Jasper + Frankie + Fynnigan + one queen sized bed = a piss poor night's sleep.
Times two.
Stephen woke up this morning convinced he was going to be permanently crippled from a night of clinging to the edge of the bed, as if the floor below was a yawning precipice waiting to swallow him up.
How come we were inundated with more furry creatures than usual?
Emily.
That's right.
Emily.
As soon as Fynnigan moved into this house, Em proclaimed that he was sleeping in her room, on her bed, because she always wanted a dog to sleep on her bed and Frankie is SUCH a Mamma's Boy that he wouldn't even contemplate sleeping anywhere other than with me.
Well.
It was a good solution.
Until we encountered the dreaded sleep over.
Where Em is absent from the house for the evening.
Or at least until we go to bed.
Friday night was the longest running game of Musical Sleeping Spots ever played in the Western hemisphere.
Fynn confused because he was in our room, not Em's.
Frankie confused because Fynn was in our room, not Em's.
Frankie making it clear that this was a bed for three, and Fynn was just going to have to be content to sleep on the dog pillow on the floor.
Currently inhabited by Goblet.
I shut the light off figuring that whatever was going to happen would happen.
And hopefully I could sleep through all of it.
Yeah, right.
As soon as the lights were out, Fynn was on our bed faster than flies on shit.
The trauma was minimal as Stephen had yet to come to bed, Frankie was in his spot, and Fynn was just happy to be on the bed with us.
(I think Frankie may be jealous because Fynn can actually get on our bed without having to take a running leap from the hallway.)
Jasper snuggled up beside me, his little motor purring just loudly enough to put me to sleep.
And then Stephen came to bed and the fun began.
Stephen is a nice guy.
Not wanting Fynn to feel left out, he moved said critters until he was able to get himself into bed comfortably.
Our comfort is not of any importance to the boys.
And the night's shuffling and moving and relocating and pushing and shoving and crying and whining (Frankie) finally became more than I could manage and at 4.14 am, that's right, 4.14 because I looked at the clock, I got out of bed, ordered BOTH dogs off the bed, much to Frankie's dismay, and then settled into now what you could consider a HUGE bed and immediately fell into slumber, content with the knowledge that my legs and knees would repose pain free.
I suspect that they waited just long enough for me to fall asleep because when I woke up at 6.30 to go pee, they were both back on the bed.
By this time, I gave up.
Got up.
Took them out for their pees and poos.
Fed them.
And started working.
Until about 8.30 am when, exhausted from the night's activities, I crawled back into bed and fell asleep.
This time too tired to care about who was where and how they got there.
Stephen's solution: a king sized bed.
My solution: not letting Em out of the house over night again until she is ready to move out and then turning her room into a bedroom for the dogs.
And I am tired.
Who wouldn't be?
Work this week has been it's usual insanity as reference letter deadlines draw nearer, escalating panic among those students who have accepted that they will need to continue in their education of they want a shot at a decent paying job.
Two snowdays.
Only one of which I was allowed to enjoy.
And the Saturday night beans and homemade bread fare at the nursing home.
We were in the dining room early because several of the residents have colds, and are dining in their rooms.
When we were directed to a table with space for three, where one resident was just finishing her dinner, Stephen started wheeling Mum into the dining room when she planted her feet on the floor and made a face.
What's wrong, I asked.
I don't want to sit there, she replied.
How come?
Because, she said.
Well, if we don't sit there we'll have to wait for another table to open up. Do you want to wait?
No. I guess not.
But she still hadn't been forthcoming about how come she didn't want to sit at that table, with that resident.
I could imagine all sorts of reasons, knowing my mother as I do, but I didn't want to get into with her, so I just wheeled her to a spot at the table.
And then proceeded to the kitchen counter to get meals for the three of us.
While I was standing there looking at pictures of the cook's grandchildren, I heard a voice I knew as my mother's, yelling:
ELVA!!! GET YOUR FINGER OUT OF YOUR NOSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THAT'S DIRTY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And then I realized why Mum didn't want to sit at that table.
I have heard more than one tale of Elva and her nose picking, but had never witnessed it.
I go to Mum with her coffee, Stephen behind me with her dinner, and she says, Dawne, ask June to take Elva out of here. She's finished eating. And I can't eat with her FINGER UP HER NOSE ALL THE TIME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ever the dutiful daughter, I asked June (somewhat apologetically I admit) if it was possible to move Elva.
June laughs.
Clearly this behaviour of Elva's and my mother's response to it is a well known issue around the nursing home.
Sure. No problem. It's the easiest solution.
My mother.
Don Janet of the nursing home.
Title Lyric: Nosepicker by Millencolin
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