“GREEN BEARS ARE ATTACKING!” Huh, what? I peel open my eyes to see a clock that reads 2:16 am and a screaming toddler hurtling himself into my bed. “What’s going on, Graham?” I ask. He reveals the details of a dream involving his green-bear lovie turning on him. More appropriate for the Lifetime Movie Channel than my toddler’s dreams, I think.
My husband and I curl up around him and thirty minutes later he’s drifting peacefully (if peacefully involves loud snoring) asleep. My husband and I are, sadly, still awake. I tap my husband and whisper, “Time to initiate the Toddler Relocation Program.”
Mission accomplished, Jonnie returns to bed and we snuggle up. As we drift… off… to… sleep… “Eh.” A hint of an awake baby rings out through the monitor. “Eh. Eeeehhh. EHHHH.” Shit. I glance at the clock. 3:38 am. I fling the sheets back and go to the nursery where a poopy diaper and hungry baby await. As I feed a freshly changed Will a bottle in the rocker, his little baby eyes bore into my soul and it reminds me of a conversation I had had, mere hours ago with my husband. It was 8:00 pm. I was getting on my PJ’s and I yelled out to my husband, “I feel old.”
My husband responded, not with the “That’s absurd,” that I was hoping for but a, “Yeah. Why’s that?” Because it’s 8pm and I’m putting on fleece pajama pants instead of skinny jeans and heels. Not that I even wanted to go out. But just that going out seemed like something I did decades ago. Hence, the feeling of old-age.
Now, instead of getting ready to go out, I get ready for bed. Because the party at the Harding House on Saturday nights begins at 2:16 am. I’ve got bears to fight and poop to battle. The night clubs may just now be closing, but I know there’s one thing my 23-year-old something self would be jealous of. I’ve got three dudes in the house that love and need me. I guess that ain’t half bad.
Here’s to appreciating every stage of life. Even if it is the sober moments at 3 am on a Saturday night.
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