So like I said yesterday, I’ve set my feet on a journey toward being more responsible, more hard-working, more glorifying to God in the seemingly mundane tasks of housewifery, and while I am enjoying this process immensely, I am going to sleep at night gallons more exhausted than usual.
Especially on Monday.
I woke up at 6:00, I showered, I dressed, I groomed, I coffee’d, I baked, I did laundry, I swept, I Bibled, I cleaned, I organized and I played with my kids. All before 10:00 a.m.
Then I fought that small house fire I told you about.
And then I baked cookies, I cleaned the house again, I made supper, I did the dishes again, I did laundry again, I sifted through junk again, I bathed the kids and I had Bible Study with a friend. All before 10:00 p.m.
Needless to say, when my head finally hit the pillow at 11:30, I was beat. Happy? Yes. Beat? Double-yes.
And now I have to interrupt this story to give you some context:
1. My favorite thing about my husband is that he always encourages me to do difficult things, to pursue sanctification, to meet trials head-on. He never coddles me and indulges my emotional rants or hurt feelings; rather, he prays for me, he points me to Biblical truth, he calls my bluff, he lets me know when I’m wrong or misguided, he keeps me accountable. And when I say I want to do better at something, he holds me to it and does his best to help me in it. I truly cherish this about him. Most of the time…
2. I am almost literally a rock when I am sleeping. For instance, Gideon has reportedly suffered from 2 bloody noses this week, squawling like a banshee until the blood stopped, and I never heard a thing, only noticing that he was in our bed when I woke up the next morning. Mr. Gore graciously handles all emergencies and feedings that take place from 12:30 to 7:00, and you’ll soon see why.
3. When I am awakened from sleep, I am the world’s biggest brat and nincompoop. I whine, I cry, I make accusations, I shuffle around like a maniac. It is perhaps the ugliest display of humanity that has ever set foot on the face of the earth. Thank God, only my Mother and my husband have had to witness the atrocity, and they often commiserate together about their plight, she dealing with me for 25 years, he for 7. They are their own support group and I don’t blame them a bit. I am 100% unreasonable and unreal in the middle of the night.
4. When awakened at night, Mr. Gore can usually lay right back down, close his eyes, and be snoozing in seconds. On the contrary, if I put my glasses on or if light hits my eyes, it’s all over for me, and once fully awake, I toss and turn for at least an hour until sleep returns to me. On my list of least favorite things in the world, this one falls right behind the devil and his minions. And this is why we’ve come to the agreement of Mr. Gore handling the children at nighttime.
5. Mr. Gore and I simply don’t fight. We communicate quite well and even in our disagreements, have rarely lost our tempers or our patience.
Did you get all that? Good. Keep it in mind, especially #2 and #3.
SO. Like I said, I was absolutely beat Monday night. But I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, and I had trouble going to sleep. Don’t you hate it when your body is dead tired but your mind is in post-coffee morning mode? Yeah, me too. But finally, I went under, and I was sleeping so hard. I just know it felt wonderful, even though I was unconscious.
The next thing I knew, though, Mr. Gore was shaking my shoulder and saying my name, Betsie’s wails echoing through our bedroom. “Hey,” he whispered, nudging me. “Hey, do you want to fix Betsie a bottle?”
Confusion filled my mind and a flash of anger burst from my sinful soul. Why, in heaven’s name, was he waking me up?
I made a whiny huff of a noise and cuddled back down into my pillow.
“Sweetie,” he continued. “What do you want to do? Do you want to fix Betsie a bottle?”
I hopped up with my eyes closed (can’t let the light in!) and clumsily handed her the last few ounces of her bedtime bottle, but she turned away from it and continued to cry. Nonplussed, I collapsed back into bed, my anger and confusion at Mr. Gore’s persistence growing. Why, of all days, was he waking me up on this day? The one where I had been on my feet for 17 hours?…
“What are you doing?” he asked. “Are you going to fix her a bottle?”
“She doesn’t want one!” I slurred/hissed, never explaining the part about her turning away from her unfinished bottle. I was too sleepy to talk. I burrowed back down to fall back asleep, willing my mind not to kick in and wake me up all the way. I was desperate to return to sleep.
And then he did it.
“BOOOP!” Mr. Gore’s voice sliced loudly through the room, mimicking a fire alarm that is losing its battery.
My eyes snapped open and so did I. I snapped.
Sitting up, I began to cry – nay, sob – my words slurring together like a saloon-frequenter: “Why’dyoudothat?”
“I’m trying to wake you up!” he explained.
“But whyyyyy?!” I mournfully moaned.
“Betsie is crying!” he said.
“But you always take care of her at night!” I cried, still slurring my sentence into one long and whiny word.
“But you said you wanted to start taking care of this stuff….” he defended.
“Whatareyoutalkingabout?” I sobbed.
I shoved on my glasses, grabbed my pillow and shuffled out of the room like a lunatic, wailing at the top of my lungs, Betsie’s impressively loud cries paling in comparison to her Mother’s.
Before leaving the room I wailed out one last incoherent zinger: “Why are you so mean?!” (Mr. Gore is the nicest man on the planet).
But once in the kitchen, even my comatose sleepy mind could recognize that I had nowhere to go and that my baby was crying. And that Mr. Gore had apparently lost his mind and expected me to take care of her.
I shuffled back into our room, my favorite pillow still in my right arm, my brow furrowed in frustration and stupification.
“I don’t understand what you’re doing!” I dramatically sobbed at my husband, who was still lying in bed looking confused. “I never said I wanted to wake up and feed the baby!”
“I thought you did…’ he responded.
“I didn’t!” I slurred through my tears and sleep-haze. “Why would you think that??”
“I thought you said you wanted to start handling this stuff, waking up and stuff and taking care of the kids during the night…I was trying to help you…”
“I never said that! I said I wanted to wake up. In the morning!” I exclaimed, before bringing forth a fresh crop of tears.
Walking over to Betsie’s bed, I scooped her up and plopped down onto my side of the bed with her in my lap, both of us wailing.
“What are you doing?!” he hissed. “You’re going to wake her up all the way. Just. give. her. a. bottle!“
“Can’t you see you’re hurting my feelings?!” I rattled off as he looked at me aghast.
“Sweetie, you’re not making sense. We will talk about this in the morning. You’re not in your right mind. You’ve only been asleep for 20 minutes!” he explained calmly, obviously forgetting #3 of my list, that I cannot be reasoned with in the night.
“You’re not making sense!” I wailed, still out of my mind. “I never said I wanted to feed the baby. I woke up at 6:00 this morning and I worked ALL. DAY. LONG…”
And this is where Mr. Gore snapped. He had heard his fill. He had had all he could stand and he couldn’t stand no more. With gusto, he threw back the covers and the sheets and quickly sat up…
and I, completely acting on my reflexes, launched Betsie’s bottle straight at his face where it hit him right square on his finely-chiseled cheekbone.
Did you hear what I said?
I hit my husband in the face with a half-full bottle of formula.
The room erupted and shrank at the same time as disbelief washed over his countenance and regret over mine.
What was that?!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Did you just hit me in the face?!”
“Idon’tknow!!!!!” I cried, shocked and sad and sorry, but mostly…really, really sleepy and addlebrained. I sat there and sobbed while he took a little walk to the kitchen to cool down (literally – he had to switch out his ice pack).
Oh my…it was a 3-ring circus if I’ve ever seen one. Which I don’t think I have…
Anyhow, the worst part, aside from abusing my beloved husband, is that I finally woke up and then could not return to sleep and, after finally fixing Betsie that bottle and getting her back to bed, I spent the next hour shuffling around the house or tossing and turning in my bed.
Mr. Gore, of course, was lightly snoring in minutes, infuriating me even more.
But even in the drama of it all, and even though my heart was so sad that we had had a kind-of (but not really) real fight and had even gone to bed a teensy bit mad, everytime I pictured that bottle hitting him in the face, I was overcome with horror…and giggles. Terrified to further offend my husband, I held them in, my body shaking the bed, my conscience berating my sense of humor for being such a terrible wife.
But I can’t help it. Even in my sleepy stupors, I can recognize a funny story.
And I suppose if you’re going to have a fight…it might as well be a good one, right?
I assure you, we made up and were laughing about it the next morning. And Mr. Gore has had a grand time recounting the story to all of our friends and to my parents (although my Daddy gave me a good and deserved scolding)…
Told you, though. This has been an exceptionally weird week.
