Moving the clocks one hour ahead really messes with my paltry sense of time and routine. I’m waking up at an hour when I’m normally semi comatose. And I’m supposed to go to sleep at an hour when I’m normally awake. Call me ‘slow-to-get-with-it’ but it takes me a good week to adjust.
So Sunday night it was already close to midnight by the time I was finally ready to go to bed. The professor decided he’d had enough of our children’s late-night antics and sought slumber on the couch instead of in our room; leaving me toute seule in our folded laundry-laden chamber.
The baby woke up shortly after midnight, so I fed him. As I held him upright with his head over my shoulder – for the purpose of burping him – he had some sort of coughing-snotting fit. I heard and felt a dump of warm liquid onto the bedsheets. The bedsheets I’d laundered a day and a half ago.
I got up to assess the damage. The cougher was dry. The coughee – that would be me – was not. I’d mistakenly thought my shoulder had borne the brunt of the assault. But it trailed down my back and onto my pants. I was soaked in someone else’s mouth-matter.
What are the odds that this would happen to me twice in one day? And how is it that Jason was nowhere to be found each time?
I put the baby back in his crib. I changed my pajamas. My hair was ‘inexplicably’ damp, but I had no intention of addressing that at 12:30am. I got back in bed – despite the fact that the sheets were no longer as ‘fresh’ as they had been thirty minutes before.
Yes. Motherhood has turned me into someone who wears puke-splattered shoes to the grocery store; who sleeps on puke-splattered sheets.
If being a mom is the greatest job in the world, my co-workers leave a lot to be desired.