You know that email that went out a few years ago that listed the different night time routines between men and women? The man said he was tired and going to bed. He put a pillow over his head and immediately went to sleep. The woman said she was going to bed and then spent a few hours doing things that in my house, especially before leaving on a trip, would read something like this:
Wiping the kitchen counter and re-loading the dishwasher after kids or husband did the dishes so the plates don’t get more chipped during the cycle; trying to feel positive that someone else actually DID the dishes; cleaning the sink; squeezing out the sponges so they don’t smell moldy the next morning; starting the dishwasher; writing to do lists; paying bills; signing school forms and writing checks; sending stray Christmas cards to people I forgot that sent us one; letting the dogs out, then in; checking them for ticks, being careful not to say the word “tick” or Charlie will bolt in fear, hiding the tweezers and matches behind my back; remembering it’s time to dose them with Frontline so put packets out on counter for morning as too tired to use scissors with that packaging; giving them their cookie; giving the rabbit some parsley because he hears the cookie jar lid clatter and rattles his cage to get my attention; seeing diarrhea on his towel so pull him out and give him a butt bath in the just cleaned sink; cleaning his cage and litter box then writing notes on the fridge about limiting his treats; turning out the lights; making sure the kids turn off their electronics, or threatening to take them away, or both; reading and writing urgent emails; throwing the net out to whatever family and friends need my support, fishing myself for support; making another list to schedule appointments for doctors, dentists, tutors, the vet, teachers, electricians, pest control (though avoiding that call because even though the chipmunks that live in and around the house are annoying when they wake me scrabbling in the walls, I can’t quite bring myself to trap and kill them); checking the garbage for recyclables; worrying about the kids, their schoolwork, their grades, their self-esteem, their social life, whether I do enough, or too much; worrying about my husband, his health, my health (whether I have lyme disease), the kids health; put out emergenC for everybody for the morning; remind myself to force apples on them; worrying about whether the gagging noise from Hank is because he’s eating the poop out of the cat litter box and whether the litter is toxic and burning holes in his esophagus (my husband’s theory) or whether it’s from the foil liners of the dozen cupcakes he ate off the counter a few days ago; whether Charlie is pregnant with mongrel puppies (Corgi-yotes my husband predicts) because I never saw blood during her heat and she was out of sight several times during those few weeks; starting another load of laundry, then another because I’m still awake, and folding warm clean laundry somehow calms me down; writing more to do lists for the cleaning lady, for the house sitter (pages of instructions for the animals); and then because I’m leaving for a trip, packing; washing my face and taking out my contact lenses; climbing into bed at midnight; setting my alarm for 4:00 a.m. for the early morning flight; glancing over at my husband and resisting the urge to kick him awake; trying to fall asleep but worrying about hearing my alarm; replaying all the other worries and trumping those with the thought of our son in Africa; forcing myself to remember positive moments (my wise friend talking about the profundity of motherhood, comforting words from my psychic masseuse that my kids will be close because souls come down in groups, the flattering attention from an Italian sommelier at dinner the other night, the exhilaration of jumping my horse – the latter having the opposite effect of inducing sleep); finally giving up and getting out of bed at 3:00 a.m.
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