...someone else wears your super hero.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Monday, August 3, 2009
Looking back, I think it's a bad routine.
Both our kids have the annoying habit of waking up a smidge after sunrise. Doesn't matter what time they went to bed or how blacked out their curtains are, at five forty-six they're wide awake demanding attention.
At one and a half, Sebastian would climb out of his crib and come into our room. Michael and I would invite him into our California king where he'd refall asleep, allowing us to catch that forty-first and perhaps even forty-second wink.
After a while, Bash needed a sippy cup to get back to sleep. I revised the routine. We added a beverage center (fancy schmancy terminology meaning small fridge) in the island when we redid our kitchen. Instead of coming directly to our bedroom, I taught my son to go to the beverage center, where his sippy cup would be waiting, filled with PediaSure the night before, and then come to our bedroom, slurp himself silly, and fall back asleep between the snugly warmth of his two daddies.
And it was cute until Bash started growing and kicking. And when my daughter came into the picture, forgetaboutit! Sometimes toys are brought with them. Sometimes they come as a pair. More often than not, I am kicked out. Of my own bed! Where I was spinning happy dreams about being twenty-three again and becoming an acclaimed disco dancer.
This doesn't happen every morning, however, this morning, yes. Banished from the boudoir. Deported from the duvet. Exiled from the Enchanted Kingdom. Relegated to a couch or forced to start the breakfast no one will eat.
I used to be a morning person. I'd pop out of bed at six, get myself to the subway, find myself a corner seat, fall back asleep and miraculously get out at Columbus Circle, never sleeping through my stop. Then I would walk the couple of blocks to John Jay College, which emphasized criminal justice, passed display cases of confiscated shivs made by prison inmates from old tooth brushes, and headed into the bowels of the building where I swam. I belonged to a Masters swim team. I DID LAPS. In New York! I trained three to four times a week, and competed at swim meets.
This would probably be a good place to mention in regards to sports, I embarrassingly fit the stereotype. I could not do ball sports (pun intended) to save my life. I could not hit, catch, or go out for the long pass. Swimming was survival. I held my head up high because I had a dolphin kick that could eviscerate and could hold my breath longer than Houdini.
But no longer. Once we moved to Los Angeles, the land of the swimming pool, I haven't said boo to racing. And the more out of shape I get, the more I'm secure that this body shouldn't don a Speedo. I blame my husband. Because of his schedule the only time I get to spend with him are the wee hours. We go to bed at one, maybe two every night. There is no way in Hades that I'm going to set an alarm for five fifty to get out of the house by six for an early swim. This mommy needs her sleep...
...Which invariably gets interrupted anyway. I imagine at some age my kids will not want to come into our bed. This is both what I long for and yet it saddens me. Maybe it's best to focus on the now. Well...now, I've created a nice dent in our couch that fits my body perfectly.