If I Could Only Dream

I don’t want to alarm anyone. There is no easy way to say this. So I am just going to say it.

I think I am dying.

I haven’t slept, like really slept, since 1995.  I am meeting up with some friends in Florida in a couple weeks for a retreat. We are going to play…and sleep. I can’t stop thinking about the sleep.  

I just want to sleep.

Hopefully, these old friends won’t think I am crazy or narcoleptic.

I actually can do a few things, somewhat efficiently, while asleep. I am writing this after preparing a bottle for the 6-month-old, setting up Sesame Street for “the vandals” – our 2-year-old and 4-year-old sons – which includes orange juice in SPECIFIC colored sippy cups for each boy and their special blankets, and I haven’t opened my eyes yet.

I am a high functioning zombie.

I cannot really complain.  I signed up for this life. Our biological children were in their teens when we started over with adoption and foster care.

But really, the teens don’t sleep either. The man-child sons — both well over 6 feet tall with beards — wrestle, kick, hit, chase, jump, roll, and belly laugh with snorts, at all hours of the night.

Imagine trying to sleep in a Hell’s Angels bar with pool tables and a bowling alley.  

When they aren’t behaving like outlaws, they cook bacon. Or steaks, eggs, popcorn, or maybe a cake. Once at 4:00 a.m., I woke to the smell of Thanksgiving…in July. The man-child sons had roasted a turkey.

A turkey.

The eldest daughter, God love her, is studying abroad. Her day is my night. At least she’s polite. She texts: “Are you awake??? You’ll never believe….”

The youngest tween daughter texts: “Are you awake? I can’t sleep. Do I smell bacon?” Or “Are you awake? I can’t sleep. Can I come take a bath in your room???”

And you might ask why I don’t just turn my phone off? Alas, the last time I did this I woke to these texts from the man-child sons:

Son: Are you awake?

Son 2:  Are you awake?

Son 1: MOM! ARE YOU AWAKE? IT’S AN EMERGENCY!

Son 2: Where is the fire extinguisher?

Son 1: MOM!

Son 2: FIRE EXTINGUISHER!!!!

Son 1: Never mind… it is too late.

And indeed, it was.

So, we don’t sleep. And we haven’t slept, and we are committed to this life. Although I meant to encourage young sleep-deprived parents, I must confess…I have no words for inspiration. I am tired. Excruciatingly tired.

I am out of bacon, turkey, cheese, eggs, and there are no spoons in this house.

Not one.

I have looked in every room, under every bed, and in the laundry baskets.

I don’t know where the spoons are.

I don’t want to know where the spoons are.

In my experience the spoons are with some unfortunate dirty underwear…under a recliner or stuffed in between the cushions.

These dear lives that live in our house, eat all our food, do heaven knows what with our spoons…are my babies.

From the 17-pound squishy baby girl who is just here until her momma and daddy are well, I am blessed you woke me at 2:00, 4:00, and 5:23.

The 2-year-old vandal who climbed out of his crib and knocked over a lamp at 1:44 – you are angel boy.

The 4-year-old vandal who wet the bed at 3:12, I adore you, and it was time to change your sheets anyway.

The 13-year-old, sweet girl, yes. I smell bacon, too.

To the man-child sons…I am begging you, bring back the spoons, and I adore you.

To Miss World Traveler… I am so glad I heard from you tonight/today.

I am tired.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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This post was written by Jami Amerine exclusively for BonBon Break Media LLC.

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