I don’t know what the deal is with my two-year-old, but she has been waking up every thirty minutes to an hour until four a.m. for about a week. Then she wakes up at 8:00 in the morning and all three kids bang around loudly in the kitchen [which is right by my bedroom door, of course] fixing breakfast [for which I am truly thankful, until I get out of bed and see the mess] fighting and arguing about who’s sitting where, who’s eating what, who gets which cereal bowl, and on and on.
So I’m a bit sleep deprived. I’m also a bit hormonal at the moment [I’ve got mood swings from hell, honestly. Pity my family, sometimes it gets pretty ugly around here!] So stuff hits me wrong. I yelled at my husband for no reason today, just because he was there, getting ready for work, and I hadn’t seen him all day and now he was leaving, so instead of getting all cuddly and loving, I yelled at him.
Where’s the logic, I ask? Far as I can tell, there ain’t none, but then again, that’s pretty much me. In addition to the sleep-deprivation, and hormones run amok, I’ve got a head cold that seems to be trying to make me cough up my left lung. I like my lung, and this pisses me off.
I need vitamins, I think, and maybe some NyQuil [if Steve didn’t take it all with his cold]
Oh, and that’s another thing. I just got over a cold one freaking week ago!
And there’s something wrong with our dog, Sydney. I think one of the kids might have accidentally hurt her back, because she is having a hard time jumping, and when you touch the middle of her back, she flinches. I just noticed that maybe it was something serious today [around closing time at the vet’s, of course] so we’re going to have to wait until Monday to take her. Poor baby. I hope she’s better by then, because I hate to see anything suffering.
I’ve been like that my whole life. When I was a kid, I used to find animals that the cats had partially killed and try to nurse them back to health. I had a mole named Digger for a day once. I wrote [in permanent marker] on a rock my mom had gotten years before [a meteor rock, I think] and made a tombstone for him. I think it said, “Here lies Digger. He was a good mole,” along with the dates I had him.
Another time, we came upon a turkey egg somehow, and hatched it in an incubator. I named him Lucky because he was the only egg that hatched [or something like that]. He was doing really well, but I decided [on the third night, I think] to let him sleep in a Kleenex box on my bed. I fell asleep, and Lucky fell off the bed. When I found him the next morning, he was too cold, and even though I tried to warm him up with a heating pad, he died in my lap.
I was an extremely sensitive kid, and I was devastated. I had guilt issues over that one for years. For some reason, my pets always ended up dying when I was a kid [and it wasn’t because I killed them, either. Lucky was the only one, and it was an accident, I tell you!] My brother and I had white bunny rabbits. We had three, two females and one male.
Rabbits are a lot like cats in that the parents [especially the males] sometimes eat their babies. I was nine or so when we had rabbits, and I still remember going out to feed the bunnies, only to find that mommy had given birth, and daddy had, well you get the picture. There’s probably a King-esque short story in there somewhere, don’t you think? We had cats for years, too, and I always freaked out every time one of the mommas were giving birth.
I would ‘midwife’ for her, [cat’s purr when they’re in labor, did you know?] and then put stuff over the top of the cats’ basket to try to keep the males out. Sometimes it worked.
So anyway, we had our share of horrible pet deaths over the years, and I had the worst luck. I was telling you that my rabbit died, while the other two lived on to move to another home. My brother and I each had blue-tick hound puppies [their names were One Spot and Two Spot, because one had one spot and the other had two]. One morning we found my puppy [One Spot] dead out by the light pole.
My string of bad luck ended when I was twelve . Mom brought home a fuzzy little pound puppy who we named Laci. Laci was my best friend for a very long time. She thought she was human, so she was more like a sister than a pet. She died not long after my daughter was born in 1998.
We tried gettin a new dog a few times over the years, but I couldn’t bond with them. I felt sorry for them, so I found them better homes where they would be loved. Sydney’s the first dog I’ve really cared about and bonded with in almost eight years. Weird that the grieving process took that long for a dumb dog, isn’t it? [‘dumb dog’ is one of our favorite terms of endearment. If a dog earns that name in our family, it means he or she is a Highly Esteemed Member of the family. Same with humans. I call Steve and the kids nerds or dorks all the time, and they know it means I’m lovin’ em. What can I say? We’re a bit odd.]
So anyway, I’m worried about the puppy. I want her better by tomorrow, because suffering of any kind hurts my heart, and I’ve had enough of that this week.
Okay, now I’m off to search out cold medicine and sleep. Take care, friends, and thanks for listening.