When Is Mothership Coming?
You ever get that feeling? Like one day you’re going to peel off your human skin and reveal the form underneath, and when the ship drops from the sky you’ll be there with suitcase in hand and towel over shoulder–because, you know, you can’t hitchhike the galaxy without a towel, fer Chrissake.
So last night I was kept up late by a nervous breakdown (not my own) and just about to fall asleep when there was an unholy scream. One of the kids was having a bad time of it. So I went into full Mummy mode, and guess what I was told.
“Go away. I’m tired.” The kid promptly rolled back over and went to sleep, and I contemplated the infinite wisdom of the Universe in barring human females from eating their young. Then I contemplated that such rules were made to be broken, and I have a crock pot and an oven.
I hope everyone reading will be able to see or at least sense my tongue firmly in cheek here.
So there I was, adrenaline pouring through my highways and byways, and sleep an utter impossibility. And around about four the doldrums hit, hard.
Why could I not have been born a day person? Why do I have to be one of the night tribe? Yes, I know the beauty of deserted city streets and the sad sweet bitterness of a train’s call at midnight, I know the hush that falls when the world tips toward dawn, and I know those moments of blessed silence softer than velvet when the streets empty out and the world’s shift change happens. But dammit, I have a child who is a Morning Person. And at five he was up, poking and prodding and needing, and I was worn down to the thin dime’s edge.
And contemplating the nutritive value of child cheeks.
I could have slept once the sun came up. No, really, I could. That’s when I get tired, when daylight happens.
But no dice. The day is underway and devil take the hindmost.
Today. Just like yesterday, only no sleep and a hairy eyeball to spare. The Little Prince has just had a bath (did I mention his 6AM dirt wallow? “Because it feels good, Mummy!”) and the Princess is busy in her own Barbie world, where zombies are plotting to take over the world and Ken is useless, Barbs (named Sarah in this story) has to save the day. Still no sign of the Sullen One, but he never resurrects before noon unless there’s a compelling reason–like coffee, or me dragging him from the bed.
Good morning, world. Nice to see you. Don’t take it personal, but I’m pulling the covers back over my head.
Metaphorically, at least.
While I wait for those lights in the sky.
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