Is it hot in here or is it me?

I'm hot. Not in the good, twenty-something-actress-of-the-moment-way, but oven hot. As in temperature.

I've been hot for over a week now, and it's only June.

Hot started in earnest the night before we left for vacation when I went upstairs to put the kids to bed. Since it's summer, we hadn't done the pre-bedtime ritual of bath and tooth brushing (cavities only happen during the school year, and besides, S only has baby teeth.)
Somewhere around the third-to-last step, it hit us. A wall of heat. Literally. Seriously, I do not exaggerate. Downstairs--pleasant 74. Upstairs--Hell.

92. That is not a civilized temperature for outside, much less my bedroom. Gross. I like sliding into cool sheets, not being suffocated by them. UNHOLY.
So, that last night before vacation, I waited until everyone else was tucked into their deathbeds, then I slunk downstairs into the guest bed. Sleep, thy name is coolness.
Departure day, and the upstairs temp had downgraded from Hell, Level 7 to Hell, Level 5. Only 83 upstairs. We trundled out to the car, and left everything in our bedrooms to roast.

On the plane(s) to Phoenix, we froze to death. The pilots up in their triple locked, windshielded cockpit had no idea that all of the passengers had turned into ice blocks. Maybe the flight attendants control the thermostat and think we'll be more complacent if they threaten us with climate agony. Once out of the tin ice box, though, we claimed our bags and stepped out into the early morning 90s of Phoenix.

But it's a dry heat.

Phoenix, presumably named for the mythical bird emerging from the desolation of the Sonora, is really a misnomer. The city should be named for raisins or prunes. One step into the sun, and you can feel yourself begin to evaporate. Imperceptibly, at first, but then, surely, your feet begin to adhere to the slightly softened asphalt while the rest of you is slowly inducted into the atmosphere. Your skin, never dampened by persperation, fails to cool. It's as though your face is doing that thing from Indiana Jones when the Nazis watched the Ark open. Eyeballs, parched, melting from your skull. And it's only June.

My sister, because she and her husband are a) economical and b) environmentally conscious and c) inured to the searing temps of the desert, have their thermostat set to 80 inside. While 80 is no great comfort, it is still TWENTY full degrees cooler in their house than outside it. Holy hell, Batman.

At night, though, even when I snuck out and turned the thermostat down to 78, it was still hot. I've been told that I radiate heat like a biscuit at night anyway, and in a guest bedroom, wearing pjs (can't go nude in some one else's house) in a queen sized bed (I'm used to the spacious, don't have to touch each other Tempurpedic King) with flannel sheets (is my sister sadistic?) we were like little sausages on a grill.

In Arizona, like in Alabama, businesses seem to think a cool interior will lure customers in. But, they OVERcool, so that an hour in a restaurant is decidedly uncomfortable at 65 degrees. Which, in my opinion, freaks out the body's internal calibration and makes the heat worse. Also, nothing makes you feel quite so stupid as carrying a sweatshirt around in 100+ temps, on the off chance that a lunch break is going to plunge you into Arctic cold.

So, like every other Phoenician, we dashed from our car (bun burning leather seats!) to the indoors (icehouse!) to the pool (comfort!) and back again. After a week of that, we hopped BACK onto freezing tin cans, flew back home to the swelter of Mobile in June.

Phoenix vs Mobile, is like the dry sauna and the steam room--you have to pick your pain. A week in Phoenix, my skin was all dry and flaky like the lizards who live there. Back in Mobile, it's like rehydrating a sun-dried tomato. I'm all water-retainy and puffy. But my skin is happy. It's a soggy melt here. Rather than shriveled and sere, we are more gooey and wilty like a candy bar in the sun. Home, where the humidity levels numbers are alarming, we slept for 2 nights in the steam rooms. Even poor Clooney who could sleep through anything, was restless and panting. He eyed us with accusation: "I thought you humans had this climate control thing in hand. What is this crap? What am, some wild animal?" We tossed and turned, and slept poorly.

But, this morning, an angel came to the door wearing coveralls and an Alabama hat. His visage glowed from the warped heat waves radiating from the blacktop. (At his 9 AM arrival, the temp was 89 already!) He strode in with confidence, tinkered, adjusted something I don't know about, and promised that in a few hours, our upstairs would be a civilized 76. All I had to do was write the check.

And in this heat, there's no way that check could have the energy to bounce.

A lesson on appreciating what you don't have until you have it

Stop me if you've heard this one before....2 kids walk into their bedrooms....

(Drum Roll)

...And don't sleep!

Last night, I slept so hard, and so thoroughly, that at one point I had to pee, and did so without completely waking up. My dreams were epic-length, and good (for a change) involving Hawaii and mai tais. When the alarm went off this morning, I felt stoned, deep in sleep.

All of this, of course, is refreshing. But it only happened because of the hellish night before:

At around midnight, I hear S coming down the hall. He is pulling his gigantic down comforter across the floor. I can hear him dragging it, not because goose down is especially noisy, but because it is laden with Lego pieces and it is slowly shedding them on the hardwood. I hear S awkwardly open my door knob (door knobs are tricky when you should be asleep) and proceed into my room, thumping down on to the floor by my bed. I hear Clooney sigh in confusion? annoyance? fatigue as S tackles him, reels him in and grasps him in a headlock.

Silence returns.

Moments later, I hear E's door open, E's "stealthy" footfalls on the floor, traipsing into my room, attempting to climb over his brother, and into my bed. I whisper-yell him onto the floor, "down there, with your brother. No room up here." The Clooney sighs again, S scoots to a side, E tucks in under the comforter.

Silence returns.

Clooney begins to whimper and cry. He is hot. He hates being stifled under a giant dead goose, and wants to be set free. I whisper-yell to S to set the dog free. His paws click click click over the hardwood, mute as he travels over the rug, and click click click again as he looks for a cool place to stretch out.

Silence returns.

I have to pee. Navigating the bodies on my floor, I proceed to the bathroom, slam my shin into an open drawer, and stare confusedly at the empty toilet paper dispenser. Half-sleep is no time to be looking for refills. Kleenex it is, then.

Silence.

S wakes up and panics when Clooney is no longer in the broiling death grip. He rises, and searches the room for his furry sidekick. His whisper calls to the dog increase in pitch as he begins to panic, and whisper-yells at me: "Clooney's gone. He ran away."

While I am too befuddled to explain that Clooney lacks apposable thumbs and therefore is unlikely to have escaped from a house where the only exits have door knobs, I stammer through a guarantee that in fact, the dog surely must be home.

Stumbling. Searching. More looking for the dog. "HERE HE IS." As expected. I hear, in the dark, Clooney's put-out sigh as he is again captured and returned to his own personal sauna.

4 AM. Suddenly, I am awake. Very awake. I remain this way for 35 minutes before dozing off again.

6 AM. Alarm. My sleep, awkward, interrupted and shallow, is over. I round up dopey children to start another day. Another in a seven-year-long string of cranky days caused by irregular, unreliable sleep.

The children are difficult to rouse. There is a Hansel and Gretel trail of Legos leading from the floor-comforter back to S's bed. The night of musical chairs has taken its toll. Perhaps, but not necessarily the most annoying thing happens as M rises:

M goes into E's room and calls, "E must have slept in S's bed last night." M's footfalls proceed down the hall to S's room: "Wait. There's nobody in here, either. Where is everyone?"

Not only had he not heard the night's busy goings-on, he managed to walk by the little bodies on his way to rouse them. While I can't quite put my finger on why, that seems unfair.

For the birds

New house rules: if you have a place to sleep, you sleep in it.

Last night, the usual suspects paraded through my sleep. S came and got me to cuddle with him. This was around midnight. Then, at 1:15, the most horrible sound: like animals pacing? Burglars burgling? Serial killers sharpening axes? I was awakened, and tiptoed out to the hallway. Not to worry, though, because apparently, if a serial killer makes the slightest sound, S will instantaneously wake, rise, and greet him in the hallway with his blankie as his only defense.

S was already in the hall when I got there. We looked around, dumbly, wondering what had brought us here. Suddenly, one of our brown bellied barn swallows ( although some googling of images suggests we might have the slightly rarer Northern Rough Wing variety. But, honestly, what right minded northerner would roost here? Wait a minute...) rose from behind the chair, flapping, flopping, floundering into the wall, the ceiling, the light fixture, the window, drunken. S/he was the most recent BBBSwallow of the week. We have had either the same uncoordinated visitor, or the entire extended family over the past months.

Finally, he ran out of gas and collapsed in a heap of Legos. (not the most comfortable place to collapse, I think) I picked him up, and went downstairs to release him out into the sweltering night. As I opened the front door, Cat came running from across the street. Of course Cat makes it impossible to set Bird free.

I learned this little nugget LAST BBBSwallow season. One of the babies fell through the chimney (which is where their nest is) and into the house. Wrongly, I assumed he could fly. I cradled him, cooed over him, and delicately took him outside to set him free. I gently tossed my palm skyward, and instead of launching into the peculiar, angular flight of the swallow, he kinda flopped a little. Cat swooped out of nowhere, and Baby Bird was No More.

Despite the late/early hour, I did not want Bird to die. I let Cat in the house, closed the door, went back outside and tossed my palm gently skyward. BBBSwallow launched and rose into the black night like a bat. I turned, went inside, tracked down Cat, picked him up and then put him out into the inky night.

I returned upstairs to wash my hands of avian flu and cat scratch fever and S was waiting for me. He could not go back to sleep after the BBBSwallow incident, and required cuddles. I cuddled, cradled, and cooed him back to sleep. I returned to my own bed, sweet bed, and fell asleep again.

At 4:30, S was back. Wanting to play Wii. 4:30 is NOT an appropriate time to play Wii. Or to be in my room. Or to be conscious in any way. I went BACK to his bed, to soothe and cuddle, though I accidentally nearly crushed Clooney. Somehow Clooney had already been delivered to S's bed. I know S had to have crept in and dognapped him from his cushion, because Clooney is too small to jump up onto S's bed. So, there we were, a non-sleeping threesome. The sky's first lights were slicing into the room, and I knew I was doomed: there really is a limit to how many times I can ask my body to go to sleep in one night.

Eventually, E could be heard karate fighting his invisible demons, and so S went off to find his brother, a companion in Wii.

I toddled off one last time to bed, this time in the well lit hall. I left birds and boys and dogs behind me, and hunkered down under the nice cool covers of my own bed.

And fell asleep one last time for the night.

To sleep, perchance to dream

Sleep. Sleep. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Forty winks.

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

And no one appreciates it more than me. So, now that my sleep is all disrupted, I am freaking out.

Three nights. The first two nights I was awake with some vague anxiety. Nothing is wrong, I was just agitated and tense. Last night, E was puking and feverish and pathetic. The symptoms (of my sleeplessness, not his puking and cold--come on, stay focused) are becoming obvious: there's this blue vein right under my eye that is starting to show. And then, there's the eyes themselves--heavy lidded, swollen, and drooping dark circles. We are talking serious zombie eyes; walking dead, no living human should have skin that blue, blink you freaky woman, zombie eyes.

Also, I am aware as I have gotten older that there are things I should/cannot do in my sleep. And I am so conscious of those things that it becomes almost impossible to release myself into the UNconsciousness of sleep.

I habitually make a fist around my tucked-in thumb. But then I wake up with aching, swollen, disfigured thumbs. So I jam my hands under my butt when I'm sleeping flat or under the pillow if I'm sleeping on my slide.

I clench my teeth. I had a guard for the teeth clenching that the dentist made for me. Clooney chewed it. I have to wait for my insurance to forget about the last one so I can get a new one. Now, I have to physically relax my jaw, crack it open, and hope that it stays that way all night. The dentist also gave me some muscle relaxants, but they don't really seem to last as long as they should...

I cannot sleep on my right side. I have been sleeping on my right side since I was a kid, and the shoulder is starting to pay the price. Sometimes, if I magically sleep for long periods on my right arm, the nerve is pinched in the morning, and I have to wait a day or so for the tingling to stop. So left side, or flat on the back, or nothing at all.

So, given all these old lady problems, I have some solutions. I try yoga breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Feel my lungs expand, my belly not. I seek that rhythm that used to be so soothing that I'd fall asleep in yoga class. I try to consciously relax my body starting with my toes and working my way up to my neck. It doesn't always workfor me. Let's just say I'm not going to be adopted into a yogic colony anytime soon. Relaxing doesn't come easy.

I've tried self-hypnosis with some success. Starting at 1,000 and counting backwards, I think of nothing but the numbers. I visualize them in different fonts or have to start over if a stray thought crosses my mind. I usually don't make it past 950. But lately, my mind has been racing, and I can't even get in to the 990s without thinking of other things.

Chemistry usually makes life better, what's going on there? Ambien sounds interesting, but of course, I REALLY can't afford to sleep eat. I eat enough while I'm awake. Advil PM is okay, except I wake up dying of thirst. There's the Flexeril from the dentist, but because he's a dentist, and not my regular physician, I think he's wary of prescribing drugs to patients. So I get 15 for the six months between cleanings. I'm like the only person you know who rushes to the dentist for cleanings...xrays? Sure. Scraping? OK. Sand blast? Fine. Do whatever you want to my mouth for the next hour, just make sure I have that script in hand when I leave. I need my DDS fix.

I try not to get out of bed while I'm sleepless. One, I'm scared of going downstairs. Two, the dog follows me and he's noisy and could wake the children--the worst possible scenario. Three, I'm afraid I'll turn on the computer, get sucked into a Bejeweled marathon, and not move until first light.

After his intense round of vomiting followed by dry heaves, E asked me to snuggle him in his bed. He struggled with sleep as I lay there in his semi-dark room for an hour and forty five minutes. Finally, his faint, even, congestion-induced snoring convinced me that he had dozed off again. I snuck back into my own bed. And before I could reach my desperately need REM cycle, S comes in with nightmares.

I woke up this morning, in S's bed completely disoriented and confused, having slept in all 3 beds last night. My back hurts from cradling kids in unnatural positions, my eyes are sunken and dull, and if I take a nap today, everything will be ALL messed up for tonight. SO. Coffee it is. More coffee. Java. Joe. As much as I need. I'll be hitting up my nursing friends for an IV of it. Direct to the gray matter. I'll pitch toothpicks in my eyelids to keep them up, just like a cartoon cat stalking a mouse. I WILL not nap today. And tonight, I will crawl into my crisp bed, and be asleep before the left side of my face hits the pillow, with my hands under it, and my jaw as physically relaxed as I can make it.

*#(@$HFohfhaodhf8yg03e4. Sorry. That was my forehead hitting the keyboard. It's gonna be a long day. TV, anyone?

Stress Test--Failed

When I was in high school,my parents always planned family trips for the breaks immediately following the end of terms. Later, in college, I would travel cross country to come home for Thanksgiving or winter break, or spring break--right after midterms or finals.
And invariably, after late night studying, snacking, and post-exam celebrating I would be exhausted, and ultimately, sick.
My freshman year at Northwestern, especially, I remember coming home at Thanksgiving. (as the years went on, I decided that chaotic weekend was probably not worth the stress of an 1800 mile journey). I clearly remember laying on the floor, feverish, achy, and convinced of imminent death. My body never has coped well with stress, whether emotional, physical, or mental. I also have a tendency to push through events with unreasonable zeal only to literally collapse when events wind down.
Last week, there was not a single night where all four of us were home for dinner. I spent Tuesday in the car (from 7:20 AM to 6:15 PM), I wanted very much for E's birthday party to be perfect, S's school open house to be memorable, I had somehow tweaked my back and was unable to sleep at night and, and and...Until Tuesday morning, I woke up miserable. Well, waking up would probably be an exaggeration. My throat hurt, my head hurt, my body ached, and my eyelids insisted on drooping. Yesterday, I slept away S's entire school day. And went to bed at 9. Loser? Yes.
But what really strikes me is how much LESS stress I am able to cope with now than I was eight, ten or (gulp) fifteen years ago. In high school, I was taking 7 classes, running the school newspaper, working on college applications, and NEVER sleeping at night. In college, I was taking 3 or 4 courses, writing lengthy papers, and (ahem) socializing heavily. When I was married and kid less, I was working as much as seventy hours a week, running a franchise virtually alone, and traveling on the weekends.
And now? Now, I'm planning how many cookies to deliver to a 7 year old's party and I am beat, fried, frizzled.
What happened? Is it practice? Is the background stress of being a grown-up so intense that it goes on all the time and I don't even recognize it anymore? If that's true, can I stop being a grown up? NOW? Is it nap time yet?

Stormy Weather

There is a folk legend that says you can count the seconds between a flash of lightning and the initial clap of thunder to determine how far away a storm is. This piece of information stems from the very real fact that light travels faster than sound. Pretty basic.
There is a lesser known corollary to this rule that says the volume of the thunder clap is directly related to the speed of the footsteps from a child's bed to his parents'.
This morning at 5, that flicker of light woke me, so that I was already braced for the subsequent thunder and the subsequent patter from S's room to mine.
Of course, then, the bed was more like a pit of snakes than a bed. S is wiggly, especially when he is trying to manipulate his body into such a position that he can cuddle the dog. The dog, already startled and uneasy about the thunder resists cuddling, and perches himself on my head. This brings the child closer to me, and in a cascading chain of events, everyone is suddenly ON ME.
Which happens to be one of my least favorite things EVER. I hate having my personal space invaded, which is partly why I hated being pregnant so much, but that is a different (and much longer) story.
So, after about 5 minutes of being kneaded in the kidneys by S's ankle, I sent him back to his room to weather the storm alone. I suppose he fell asleep again, but I can't be sure, as I waddled into the bathroom to pee, and promptly went back to sleep.
M woke up early this morning, as he was expecting a call from a service person, which (surprisingly) never came. So, S and he did their early morning business while I slept in. I have had a cough for about 5 weeks now, and it is migrating to my sinuses, so I slept 'til 7. Then, the subcontractor I was expecting to demo my bathroom came. And demolished my bathroom. Did I mention DIY reassembly of bathroom? Perhaps that was a tactical error.
An early start to an annoyingly out of synch logistical day. And more storms expected tomorrow...it's a metaphor.

Midnight Mayhem

There is a recently not-renewed, failing in the ratings, extended miniseries on TV right now. It is poorly acted, poorly scripted, and completely terrible. The plot represents something like Melrose Place meets Survivor. Only rather than getting voted off the island, our characters are individually picked off by a sadistic and really stealthy mass murderer. So, I confess, I have been watching every episode of Harper's Island.
Last night we made the mistake of watching it last thing before bedtime. Then, I had to go outside in the dark all alone, to let the dog pee. When I come inside, M is waiting around the corner and scares the living daylights out of me. In the total dark of the house, he's whispering "die, die, die" as we go up the stairs. In the dark bedroom, I turn on my nightstand light, and he's like 4 inches from my face, making the I'm about to stab you gesture and wearing a psychopath expression. Absolute cardiac arrest.
By now, I have enough adrenaline in my blood to run to Pensacola, and it's unlikely that I will be dozing off anytime soon.
M raises his eyebrows at me in the universal husband signal for "hey, baby..." and I respond with, "doing it would be more terrifying than the movie." And that is his punishment for scaring me.
I tell him that we should hope neither kid wanders into our room in the middle of the night, as I will be in heightened self-defense mode, and will probably knock him out. (Actually, E DID wander in to our room, and I managed to differentiate his profile from that of serial killer, and slept with him in his room for a while. He was having nightmares--and really who am I not to empathize with that? Also, his room has REALLY spooky noises at night.)
Finally, the adrenaline starts to ebb, and I can hear M's breathing start to become more shallow and even and quiet. I am feeling bitter that he can just go to sleep unaffected by the terrifying slaughter of a bunch of twenty-somethings alone on an island in the Pacific Northwest. (As a side note, what family knows only beautiful people, consists of only beautiful people, and manages to stay beautiful despite being hunted through the beautiful forests and beautiful rustic towns of Washington State?) My bitterness grows. I am lying there, thinking of the gruesome dis-arming of one of tonight's characters. I am also irritated that I have been sucked into this idiotic show. It's B-A-D. I start silently speculating how many weeks of the show are left, and whom, among the final 7 are going to make it back to civilization. Then, I realize I am STILL awake, and still affected by this stupid show.
So, I sneak up right above M, grasp him suddenly, and give him a scary "argh!" He sits upright in bed, totally disoriented and scared. I feel better about everything, roll over to sleep, and leave him lying next to me, adrenaline pumping.

Tempting Fate

Short post today, as I have not been home most of the day:
1. Went to Target without kids. You know how batters in the on-deck circle swing bats with weighted doughnuts on them, so that when they're up, the bat is light in their hands? It's like that and grocery shopping with the kids. You go with them only to appreciate how much easier it is when you get to go without them. M pushed one cart and I pushed the second, and there was no whining, no begging to leave, no one begging for some sort of glow in the dark sugary cereal. So, so, so much better of an experience.
2. Went out to lunch at a new place. We shared a gourmet pizza of dubious healthfulness, had a lovely, ice cold beer, came home and...napped. The beer really helped--there was none of that senseless suggestive eyebrow raising (husbands, we see it, we just choose to ignore it), we craved that nap before the kids had to be picked up from camp. We ran upstairs, quick as newlyweds, stripped off our khakis, and dove under the covers. We snuggled down in the cool, clean sheets, and...slept. For 45 whole minutes. It was indulgent and magical.
3. We have E's friend over for a sleepover tonight. The three boys play so nicely together. In fact, this is one of my favorite friend playdates because this friend has three siblings and is so used to treating them nicely that he includes S in all of their playtime. It's wonderful. Not quiet, per se, but undemanding.
I'm sure karma is going to come kick me in the butt for this, but what a pleasant day. (Dare I speak it aloud?)

Eyes Wide Open

For more than one hundred and fifty days of school, M or I went into E's room and gently roused him from a deep sleep. We waited until the latest possible time so that he could sleep those precious few moments longer. We gently stroked his face and gave him kisses to ease him into the trauma of yet another school morning. Every morning, he had to be awakened.
Weekends and today, the first day of summer vacation, however, he manages to wake himself at FIVE AM. This morning, he was in my bed "whispering" self congratulatory messages on finally making it to summer vacation at FIVE AM.
Which would have been even more irritating except that his brother, the non-sleeping freak, was already awake, chasing Clooney around my bed at FIVE AM. At one point, the dog was straddling M's sleeping face, and S grabbed two hind feet and pulled the rest of Clooney back over M's face. That could NOT have been pleasant (really, for anyone involved.)
Five AM? Nobody except for like barristas (so that I can go get coffee on such days) and the Krispy Kreme people need to be up at 5 AM. My sister gets up that early to exercise, but that's just unnatural. People can exercise at normal times. Why oh why are my children awake at 5 o'clock? That means they are awake for at 15 hours a day. That's just not right! That amount of time requires WAY too much interaction on my part. I mean aren't there labor laws protecting moms from working horrifically long shifts? Can't we unionize or something? Is this a sweat shop? If it were a sweatshop, I'd wind up with a cute pair of shoes by the end of the day. If I'm working that long, can't I at least be skinny? Can't my metabolism at least offer up a compromise, "look, this fat chick is workin' her butt off. Maybe I could help by taking some of her big butt off."
I remember when the boys were babies. And yes, they were up three fourths of the night, but then, they would nap during the day. They'd be up for two hours then sleep for an hour. Oh, merciful naps, where have you gone? Now, all I can look forward to is the distant teenage day when they want to sleep until noon. I will go into their rooms, and crawl into their beds and start "whispering" to them about what I'm going to do that day.
Especially since, by then, I will be old and like all old people, not require any sleep. Life is cruel.