Some days I’m tired, more tired than I care to admit. The kind of exhaustion I only remember from the time in college when I stayed up for nearly two days in a row. It was hell week, my mother asked if I was on drugs because I literally couldn’t keep myself awake long enough to talk. I tried to explain this to her, but I fell asleep.
Okay, so now that we’ve established the type of tired, we can move on to where the tired came from and more importantly what it made me do or in some cases, not do. This tired was like storm clouds that gather on a sunny day, surprising you with their suddenness, their utter power to take over.
I wondered first if I was pregnant, nope took care of that (tubes tied) because while I love my fourth, he was a surprise. I love surprises, but surprises of such magnitude scare the shit out of me and for the sake of my sanity, which is precarious enough already, can happen only once in a lifetime. No pregnancy, hmmmm…
Oh wait, perimenopause….fuck, what sort of cosmic force makes you go from menstruation to pregnancy to perimenopause, and then laughs its sadistic ass off as you lose your mind with the looniest, bat-shit craziest, mother of all body changes ever…men-ohhh-pause. (Said in my best Oprah yelling voice, the kind she uses when she announces guests or gives away things only the O can afford).
Can this be the beginning? I know it is, but is that why I’m so tired? Or maybe it’s my period, the sometimes three-week long blood fest gorier than any early eighties slasher film.
I can’t be sure of the exact cause exhaustion, so I give up contentedly believing it is a combination of factors. Oh, and I have four young kids…which might have something to do with it.
- Either way I have now learned what to expect from myself when this dog-fucking tired strikes. Not very much. In fact, I would I turn into a big pile of shit who would sit mindlessly watching reruns of Tori Spelling Lifetime movies (damn those kept her busy in the early 90’s) as I often did pre-kid, post hangover, if it weren’t for the four young lives I’m somehow responsible for. Catch you when they go to bed, Tori. I’ll be the beaten down, middle-aged mess with a glass of wine and grumpy disposition. I know you’ll understand, you have an absent husband and four kids. Maybe we can be blood sisters.
- I let the dog drink from the toilet and put her head into the crotch of strangers. Sure, I make half-assed gestures that make it seem as though I’m attempting to stop her, but there is no depth to them. These are purely for show. I want to convince you I still care. Don’t believe this empty, hollow gesticulation. I barely know you’re here. I’m sleeping eyes open, mouth moving, complete with animated hand gestures. This is a gift I’ve perfected after 10 years of almost no sleep. I may not remember any of this. I’m sorry. I suck.
- Yes, the two-year-old is diaperless, and the four-year-old is attempting to wrangle him. She’s nearly a pro so please don’t feel as though you need to help. She’ll get him eventually, and when she does she’ll be almost as tired as I am and will, for the first time in six months, willingly go down for a nap. See, things aren’t so bad, there is a silver lining. I just have to make it for another hour. I got this.
- There is no such thing as too much television on days like this. No, this movie is not rated R, it’s PG-13. Yes, 1980’s PG-13, which was back before they truly cared about swearing and violence. These are not the watered-down, pussy PG-13 movies of today. I couldn’t stand one more episode of Max and Ruby. I know I’m tired and I may not be thinking rationally, but I think that bunny went bananas, killed her parents, buried them in the basement and they are using the senile grandmother to fund their parentless lifestyle. Oh shit, the two-year-old is scared. I’m getting up. I don’t need to, the dog is going to cuddle with him. Isn’t she sweet?
- There will be no showering or exercising today. I will grunt and groan as I accidentally glance at myself when I pass a mirror, but that will not change these things.
- There will be copious amounts of wine following a dinner of ice cream drowned in chocolate sauce. Don’t look at me like that. Do you see the bags under my eyes? Don’t make me come closer, I haven’t brushed my teeth today either.
Yes, I’m tired, so very tired. I think I’ll just sit down and rest my eyes….
Nicole Johnson is a fiction writer, blogger and stay at home mom raising four children, a dog, a cat and a husband. She fears birds, anything with the potential to cause fire, and Disney World. Her work has been featured on Mamapedia, Scary Mommy and The Mid. Her blog, Suburban Sh*t Show: Tales from the Tree-Lined Trenches chronicles her life in the sh*t show, and she can be found on Facebook and Twitter, which is her new obsession because it forces her to get to the damn point.
