I am paying for spending two out of the last three weeks in a small hotel room with the kids.
Every night, one of them shows up in our bedroom and either climbs onto the foot of our bed, into the middle of our bed, or sleeps on the floor of our bedroom. The results of this are that R and I? Are tired. And we are worried about stumbling to the bathroom in the middle of the night and stepping on an ankle biter. That would be horrible. Beyond horrible. And when we get up and usher them back to bed? They come back. It's like they have a sixth sense of when we enter a deep sleep and army crawl back into our bedroom. It's amazing. And tiresome.
Last night? S came in our bedroom around 3 am. She curled up on the foot of the bed until I got up to go to the bathroom. Then she had to go (which, actually, she really did). I spent the next almost three hours trying to get her back to sleep and taking her to the potty so she could then not actually go. This makes me very, very cranky at 3, 4, or 5 am. When she wanted me to go to the potty with her again at 5:30, R was stirring so I asked him to take her. Well, begged is more like it. S, of course, throws a fit and wants me to take her. If we hadn't had six false alarms in the last few hours, I might (stress on might) have been more sympathetic. Instead? I just rolled over and covered my head with a pillow.
R ended up taking her downstairs since, once again, she didn't have to actually go potty and we didn't want her to wake up T. Of course, she falls asleep on the floor in minutes downstairs and then proceeds to be a big ol' crabapple all day long. Joy!
R had his Masters' swim class this morning, so I plopped the kids in the Y childcare room and proceeded to torture myself, I mean, exert myself on the cardio equipment. I'm not going to lie, it sucked with being all groggy and exhausted from another night of interrupted sleep. It also sucked from having an irregular workout schedule this month.
I'm turning into the kind of gal who gets all old lady crotchety when you mess with her schedule. Or, apparently, the way I fold my laundry. Heh.
Speaking of which, Mom and Richard are going to be here tomorrow-ish for a few days. They are driving to Seattle to see the Boston Red Sox play (I have no idea) and then back all the way across the country to Vermont and then back down to North Carolina. It's going to take them six weeks to do this. It would take me six weeks to recover from that much time in a car.
I should be straightening up the house. I'm not the least bit motivated to do so, and R is trying to be understanding about my reluctance. I'm trying to understand my reluctance. I feel like I clean all the time, and the house? Never seems to stay clean or maybe it's that it doesn't seem to be clean enough.
And on that note? I'm going to bed and hope that R and I wake up as alone as when we go to sleep. And the house? It's all cluttered. Again.