It’s Been A Long Time Since I’ve Used “Penis” in a Post

I take an ambien every night. I have been for months. I fall asleep in a blink and then I sleep solidly until the alarm goes on in the morning. Even if I have to get up because I have to go to the bathroom or if Aitch is having a nightmare or if Doodicus is scared of a storm, I can always go right back to sleep. I love my ambien.

I recently had it refilled and while I dropped like a fly on Monday, Tuesday night I tossed and turned. I was awake more then I was asleep during the night. I ended up dropping Aitch off at school, coming home and sleeping for another three hours straight. Wednesday and Thursday (last night), I again struggled getting to sleep and woke with every snort, wheeze, and exhale from my husband, which eventually sent me to the silence of the couch. Still I tossed and turned. I also hadn’t been feeling well, waking with headaches and stomach cramps.

Last night, sometime around 3:00 a.m. I started wondering if I hadn’t got a bad batch of ambien with the recent refill. They couldn’t ALL be bad because Monday I had no problem with sleep. This morning I pulled the bottle of white pills from the cabinet and realized that for the past three nights I had been taking Paxil, an antidepressant and I had started and then stopped after a couple of months but hadn’t thrown out. It explained the headaches, cramping, even the jaw-clenching! Not to mention my inability to sleep.

Of course, it also explained how I was able to accept my mistake with little more than a “aw shucks!” kind of attitude, and why I am completely incapable of imagining a penis. Not that I’m always trying to imagine penises, but ADs really pulled the plug on my sex-drive and being unable to concoct any sexual imagery confirmed that I had been taking the wrong stuff. 

Thank goodness I had this week off from work or I’d be even a bigger wreck. I marked the Paxil lid and moved the bottle (I can’t bear the thought of disposing of them yet). Tonight, I will sleep.

Update to Self-Portrait

I posted “Self Portrait” via my Droid and unfortunately it wouldn’t recognize the two subsequent images I had included with the drawing. They were of the descriptions Doodicus had written of himself. The first one is supposed to include his physical attributes. The teacher read these out loud and the students were to guess who it was. I have no idea where the “one big eye” and “big ears” comes from because that was not what he had written when we first worked on it.

I have not asked about the second part, written more as a prose, but I don’t think that was the intent. I haven’t asked because this is still hanging in the hallway of the school and I don’t want him to over-think it and become self-conscious about it. I learned more about Dood with this assignment than I have with any attempts we’ve had in a recent conversation.

Self-Portrait

image

“Hi, my name is M*****. I have brown eyes and one small eye and one big eye. I have long, brown hair. I have freckles and one big one. I have big ears. I am ten years old.”

“funny. fun. athletic. caring

Brother one sister: son of J***** and D*****

lover of minecraft, video games, TV

Who feels happy, angry, mad

Who needs a computer, Minecraft, little more

money

Who fears gangsters, Grampa dying, me dying

Who gives love, caring, money

Who would like to see Canada, Mexico, Jordan

Resident of *****, Nebraska”

Tomorrow

Things have been not so good lately, but each time I sit down to draft it out, 600 words later I have deleted it and closed the window. One of my friends from Facebook posted on one of my wall updates how I never seem to be happy, and frankly, the words stung with their accuracy. I have not been happy.

It’s not because there is a sense of “buyer’s remorse” over our moving Doodicus from a private school to a public in the hopes he would have access to more…more what? Yeah, well, that’s hard to explain. And the remark about Buyer’s Remorse came from the psychologist, not from Sparring Partner, myself or Dood, but it kinda sums things up nicely.

It’s not because Sparring Partner’s dad is slipping slowly away in a too-small nursing home room. The giant man whose presence in any room could not simply be ignored – not just because of his size – but because his distinct Bostonian voice could drown any cacophony of Midwesterners, has become an almost empty, cancer-riddled shell. Or that my mom’s Alzheimer’s is progressing in what seems like light-speed ever since Aitch started going to school and we see her less frequently. Talking with her about how the kids are adjusting to school, or the home projects, or just little stories about day-to-day happenings is like trying to write on a chalkboard in the middle of a rain shower.

My unhappiness is not because my son had a crisis that shook us all to our very quick; that incurred a standing appointment with the behavioral health department every other week, that made me ache to go back in time and tell him a thousand more times a day that we love him more than anything. I should have hugged him more even though he always wiggled or turned away. Especially when he wiggled and turned away.

It is that culmination of emotional weight and stress and a feeling your life is spinning wildly off course even though there was never a course to begin with to follow. I know it will slow down enough so I can catch my balance. Yesterdays always seem much simpler, and certainly less of a burden. They are the days that no longer have long lists of things to-do and the things un-done. They are just simply the days that were. Tomorrows are hard because they are filled with expectations, anticipations, dread and worry.

I am hoping just for better tomorrows. Maybe even happier.

Naughty

Aitch’s preschool class takes turns in bringing snacks for all the kids. Each day, a Snack Bucket is sent home with one child who is to return the next with snacks for all. This is rather an exciting event to four-year olds. I remember the first time my son came home from preschool with the Snack Bucket because he had snuck it into his room and had fallen asleep not only with it in his bed, but with it wrapped tightly in his arms.

My daughter is no less enthusiastic about this honor, but when I asked if her classmates had enjoyed the snacks she had brought yesterday, she sadly told me that she had not been able to hand them out. Instead she had sit in time out. “I wasn’t listening,” she explained with a pout.

This had not been the first time that she has told me about sitting in time out for Not Listening, so today I caught the preschool teacher and asked her about it.

“It’s not that she’s being naughty…” she started. I braced myself because really, what else could it be?

“…it’s more of she’s not following directions.” PO-tato, paTAto, right?

The teacher continued, “When we came in from recess, I counted the children and came up with 23 (FYI: there are 24 in her class), so I counted again and came up with 23. We realized Aitch was missing. We quickly discovered she was ‘hiding’ from us, which is why she was given the time-out.”

Oh,yeah, I definitely think that qualifies for being naughty.