It was close to fifty degrees (Fahrenheit) yesterday. ‘It’s the first day of Spring,’ the Gort divined in the car on the way home from school. I laughed. ‘The first day of Spring is not till March, and in Calgary…..it’s, like, June before it’s actually Spring.’ I’ve been called a bubble-burster before, though I prefer the term ‘realist’: as in, Spring will not realistically be here for many more months. As per Exhibit A (Spring 2009) and Exhibit B (Spring 2010).
Twelve hours later, at 3am, when – having slept for an hour – I was wide awake, bathing my three year old who’d puked twice in the last hour; the first time….upon his father-who-faints-at-the-sight-of-vomit. I glanced out the window. There was freshly fallen snow on the deck: Spring deferred. ‘Tomorrow’s [today] going to suck,’ I braced myself, as I headed upstairs for the third round of tucking in our Hen.
A short while later, I woke up to the sound of footsteps above me. [I’d sought refuge in the guest bed downstairs, after putting the Hen to sleep in our bed. A king-sized bed is just not big enough for two adults and a possible-puker.] I couldn’t open my eyes. I sensed it was still dark outside.
And then lights-camera-action…the Gort was downstairs, waiting for breakfast, presumably. Upstairs, the baby was yelling for someone – anyone – to come and get him. The professor was evidently pretending to sleep through the commotion, so I dragged myself out of bed. I glanced at the clock in the kitchen before going upstairs. It was 6.57am. Less than four hours of sleep? This day was a disaster waiting to unfold.
I stumbled upstairs, past the pretend-sleeping professor, ‘thanks for this,’ I conveyed my ‘gratitude’. ‘I can’t move,’ he blamed-excused. While I scooped young Percy out of his cage and headed downstairs for breakfast and lunch-packing duty.
Half an hour later, the [guilt-ridden] professor joined us. ‘You don’t understand,’ he tried to excuse, ‘I could hardly sleep, I kept having flashbacks to when he puked on me. Every time he’d cough or move, I’d think he was about to puke again. I felt like those soldiers from Vietnam…with the flashbacks.’
I’m sure veterans everywhere would be honored by the comparison.
Despite my misgivings, the day turned out to be fairly delightful, all things considered. Percy took a decent nap. The Hen and I made muffins. We three sat on the couch, reading books, and staring at the Narnia-esque landscape outside. The littlest two hugged. We went to Starbucks (for my second coffee of the day) and some apple juice for the little people. We drove through Glenmore Reservoir, and we picked up our oldest cherub from school. I made a tasty dinner (even though I really wanted a thin, crispy pizza delivered to my door.) The professor walked through the front door an hour earlier than usual, just in time for dinner. And all four boys wrestled while I downed a thimble-full of wine. It was nearly magical.
(Except for the boys’ fighting for an hour instead of sleeping…and moi having to clean the kitchen because it was so….explosive-looking.)
To get hair like this, just wash it at 3am, comb and sleep on it for 3 hours. Voila!