Help A Mama Out

I have a problem.

Not a major one, but, well, in my current state of exhaustion, it seems rather major.

In fact, it's kind of getting epic in my house right about now.

For the first time, the hubs and I are at loss.

We don't know what's up with Ella, and we're turning to you to find out.

***

Ella wakes up once or twice a night. Lately, it's been more like once.

Normally, she rouses between 2:30 and 4 a.m., nurses, and falls right back asleep.

She's wide awake and rarin' to go by 6 or 6:30 a.m., which is fine, because that's when I normally get up anyway. (Occasionally, she'll bust out with a 5 a.m. wake-up time, which doesn't thrill me, but it's not the end of the world.)

However, the last two weeks, I've had a different middle-of-the-night experience with Ella.

Different in a way I never expected.

Take last night:

It was 3:12 a.m., and I heard the noises: The fusses and grunts of a hungry baby being roused by her tummy.

I reached over, grabbed her out of her pack-n-play next to us, and swooped her to the breast. She ate steadily for about 12 minutes.

Then, full, she popped off. And beamed up at me.

Then, she chirped happily.

Then, she reached her little hands up and patted my face and burbled and talked and waxed on about something or other.

For 45 minutes straight.

Seriously, the little babe was happier than a pig in mud.

But she was also louder than a cat in heat.

She's been a highly social, talkative baby since birth. We've always known that. She smiled and coo-d back at people much younger than most babies do. But she's also loud. I mean, LOUD.

Here. Take a listen:

This was taken in the car about three weeks back, but you get the idea. This was what she was doing while laying in bed next to me. And, just in case you didn't catch it the first time, it was 3 a.m.

Hear that trill that sounds like a horse neighing at the end? Imagine that happening, over and over and over again, in the middle of your normally restful slumber.

It was so loud that it woke the dead, otherwise known as my sleeping husband.

For a man that gets up at 4:30 a.m. to go to work for 16 hours straight, let me tell you, he was not thrilled.

I believe his exact words were, "She better be darn glad she's so cute."

Anyway, 45 minutes later, after rocking and walking and putting her in and out of the co-sleeper and trying to nurse her even more and even rationalizing with her, saying, "Ella, it's the middle of the night. It's time to sleep, not play, baby," she finally fell back asleep in my arms.

And I considered that a rousing success.

Why?

Because the night before, the same thing had happened. But that time, it had lasted for 2.5 hours.

Two and a half, loud-and-proud, baby-filled hours.

Lord have mercy on my soul.

***

It was so bad that I almost wished she'd cry. Because with crying, I could do something to help her, soothe her, something.

But no, she was thrilled with life; nothing was wrong, and no matter what I did, she just kept right on singing her song.

I mean, even if I believed in it, I couldn't have even tried letting her cry-it-out. She wasn't crying!

And I'm pretty sure there's no such thing as letting a baby gleefully squeal-it-out. Especially when she's so darn loud that you won't be getting any sleep, anyway.

But after about a week of this, I'm beginning to tire of it. I feel like I've tried everything.

I have tried not engaging her; not smiling back at her or talking to her, but just closing my eyes and rocking and nursing and all that jazz. But my stoicism doesn't deter her. She keeps right on talking to me.

I've put her in bed with us, back in her pack-n-play, even in her own room in her crib. But no matter where she is, she just keeps right on talking.

I've strongly considered just accepting this as her chosen sleep cycle and getting her up to play until she's tired again.

But that seems inappropriate. While I'm no stickler about scheduling an infant, night-time is for sleeping.

At least that's what I thought.

Apparently, my daughter disagrees.

Isn't it a bit early for the rebellious years to start?

***

For reference for all of you willing to help and grace me with your mommy wisdom:

*She normally takes one good nap for two to three hours around lunch-time.
* She also takes about two power naps - one in the morning and one before dinner - lasting anywhere from 20 to 40 minutes.
* Most of the time, that's all the sleep she needs during the day, as evidenced by the fact that she is perfectly happy during the rest of her waking hours.
* She naps in her crib, but still sleeps in our room at night - a lot of the time she's in our bed.
* I truly don't think she's capable of sleeping through the night yet. When she wakes up to eat, you can tell she's hungry. She's not playing around, and she's chugging as fast as she can.
* She's been continuing this pattern of of a middle-of-the-night Glee Fest for about a week now - just enough time to make Mommy very concerned that this may become some sort of habit.

So, now that you've got all the details....HELP!

How do you put a happy baby back to sleep?

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

I Like The Night-Life, Baby

Ella goes to bed between 6:30 and 7 p.m.

A blessed 6:30 or 7 p.m.

And I say that because, though I adore every second I get to spend with my little girl, man, can that baby can put a damper on my to-do list.

So, when bed-time comes, or nap-time hits, I go all drill sergeant on myself.

My inner monologue is literally yelling, "MOVE! MOVE! MOVE! GET IT ALL DONE WHILE YOU STILL CAN! NO CHORE LEFT UNDONE! NO PILE OF DISHES LEFT BEHIND! DO YOU HEAR ME? MOVE YOUR BUTT, LADY!"

I'm like a mommy tornado; doing laundry, finishing dinner, washing dishes, putting away blankets and toys, paying bills, making meal plans, packing lunches, baking cookies, returning phone calls, taking a shower, getting everything done I can't do nearly as well while toting around a baby and singing "Do Your Ears Hang Low?" for the 18th time.

Until, finally, thankfully, it's all done. The house is tidy; the chores are (semi) finished.

And I can sit down and relax. Do something, anything, for myself.

Problem is, by the time my butt is ready to ride the couch, it's normally past 10 p.m. I'm more than likely less than two hours away from Ella's first wake-up of the night.

Logic and good-reasoning should tell me to go to bed, immediately, while I still stand a chance of getting about seven hours of sleep.

Except I don't listen to logic and good reasoning.

In fact, lately, I've been laughing in the face of them.

Because around 10 p.m., when my husband normally heads off to bed, I've been doing something stupid - something a little bit out there.

Like reading a book. Or watching a new T.V. show.

Or spending an hour browsing on Facebook.

Not that these are that novel. And it's not like I've never done them before.

It's just that, pre-baby, if I was tired, I went to bed. I had time to read and watch and browse later.

Pre-Ella, I simply didn't ignore that heavy-boned feeling you get when you're plum exhausted. I just listened to my body and got some sleep.

Still, despite my very heavy bones these days, that idea just isn't as appealing to me anymore.

At that tired time of night, my house is also quiet and reasonably clean. My husband and baby are fast asleep. And I, for once, have a moment where no other human being is asking anything of me or physically hanging on me.

So I sit there. Maybe I pop a bowl of popcorn or brew a cup of ginger-honey tea. Maybe I turn on the television or put the computer on my lap. Maybe I even jump in bed with the hubby and baby, along with a new novel with a book-light attached.

It's my equivalent of a stiff drink at the end of a long day of business.

It helps me unwind. It gives me something little, simple, and easy to enjoy.

It's great.

Until it started cutting drastically into my sleep time.

Tuesday evening, for instance, you could have found me awake at 1 a.m., reading in bed.

Then last night, I was on the couch, watching an episode of ABC's Revenge - a show I started watching simply because it was on at that quiet time in the evening, but now, I'm hooked. My husband has no interest in it, so it's just me, in the peace, with a show I never intended to start in the first place, up past 11 p.m.

But this morning - oh, this morning - when Ella woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 6 a.m.? I. Was. Feeling. It.

As usual, I was none to pleased with myself.

And, as God as my witness, I actually said aloud, "Tonight, you can not stay up like that again. Tonight, you have to go to bed before 10."

But, even as I said it, even as my own pulse thundered in my over-tired head while Ella chirped away next to me, I knew I it wouldn't happen.

Just like the many nights before, I knew I'd finish loading the dishwasher, putting away the clean cloth diapers, and answering e-mails, before I'd decide to stay up for "just one more chapter" of the book I'm reading. Or I'd give myself "just 15 more minutes on the computer."

I knew I'd find some way to enjoy my quiet house, alone, for a bit more of the evening.

Until, finally, it would be past midnight, and I'd be dozing off just in time for Ella to wake me up.

It's pretty masochistic. But day after day, I find myself continuing to do it.

It's almost as if I'm choosing my sanity over sleep.

Talk about insane.

***

I know I need "me time" so I can be a good mommy and wife. But because my sailor husband is never home, during the day, time doesn't really allow for much of me.

And I'm just not one of those women who can leave dirty dishes in the sink one night so I can read a book and still go to bed on time.

Oftentimes, I'm up till midnight just tidying things up and folding laundry. I don't even get any "me time" on those days.

But I can't stand to leave too much lying out of place when I go to bed. For whatever reason, it actually stresses me out more and causes me to rest less.

And I can't nap when Ella naps simply because, well, my husband and I like to eat dinner and wear clean clothes. That stuff won't happen if I don't take care of it while Ella's sleeping soundly in her crib.

So, for now, I'm tired. But I have no choice but to embrace a night-owl persona if I'd like any time just as me, Brittany, and not as just Mommy and Wife.

***

How do you get "me time?" Do you consider it more important than things like sleep?

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Now That's Self-Soothing

Sometimes, mommies like me are given a bad rap.

Those of us who use "attachment parenting" methods, those of us who don't believe in sleep-training young children, those of us who consider strict schedules and cry-it-out methods dangerous for infants - well, we're considered a bit out on the fringe.

At the very least, we're considered to have children who are ultra-attached to their mommies.

I've been told that my parenting method will not allow my child to develop the necessary skills she needs to cope; that she won't be able to self-soothe because I rock and nurse her to sleep when she's ready, not on some strict, parent-directed schedule.

And, honestly, I can see where that could be a concern. If a child always has her cries answered by Mommy, will they ever be able to deal without her?

After the last few weeks, I'm here to tell you: The answer is largely, and unabashedly, yes.

Take last Friday.

Ella was playing on her blanket with some stuffed blocks and a teether, laying on her tummy, for her "tummy time," if you will.

I was running about the house putting together a dinner for later and doing laundry while she was happy.

Every few minutes, I'd run through the living room and ascertain that she was still happily playing away.

That routine continued on for a good 20 minutes when I realized that Ella had been content playing alone for quite some time.

So I walked back into the living room and found her: Asleep.

On her belly, right on the blanket. Just conked right out.

I looked at the clock and realized that, indeed, it was about the time that she normally acts fussy, and I nurse her and put her down for her nap.

But this time, she never got fussy. She simply laid her little head down and went to sleep. Without me even in the room.

Then, yesterday, it was about the same time of day.

I had not only Ella, but also my dear friends' 20 month old. I'd taken both babies on a walk to a neighborhood playground, where Ella had nursed and K, the sweet little boy I was watching, played with another friend of mine's 18 month old.

Finally, I loaded Ella and K back in the stroller and walked the three minutes back home. I retrieved K and the diaper bag from the stroller, put them inside, then went to grab for Ella when I realized that, lo and behold, the baby was asleep.

It was, again, about the time that she normally goes down for her nap.

I picked her up; she woke up, looked at me, and then put her head right down on my shoulder and fell right back asleep.

I then put her right in her crib, and she was out like a light.

***

These are just two instances of at least 15 that I can think of where Ella has put herself to sleep, much to my surprise.

She has never been "taught" to do this, mind you.

She's a baby who has been held, rocked, and nursed to sleep for every single nap and bed-time. (Not to mention the fact that we still co-sleep at night.)

Still, she's not quite 4 months old, but it's clear as day to me that she has the ability to put herself down without help from her mama.

The reason attachment parenting is so effective, according to any piece of research you read on the subject, is because it gives children a sense of security. If their needs are always met, they don't build up a fear and sense of uncertainty that certain sleep-training and rigid scheduling can bring forth in an infant.

Watching my tiny baby put herself to sleep was the pat on the back I definitely needed. It is my answer to all the people who've warned me that I'm creating a "mommy addiction" and a child who will always be attached to my hip.

It may not be the chosen methodology for everybody, but it's definitely worked for us.

***

I am very outspoken about the fact that I don't believe in sleep-training infants, and furthermore, I don't believe in scheduling babies throughout the day.

Dr. Ferber. The Moms On Call. All of those experts who swear our children have the ability to sleep through the night, take X amount of naps a day, and shouldn't be rocked and nursed every time they wake up?

Yeah, they probably hate me and my chosen parenting methods.

I, for one, have no use for their's, either. In fact, I don't agree with a lot of their principles outright.

But, still, my daughter sleeps. She has a schedule; it's just not nearly as rigid and parent-led as the experts recommend.

But she's healthy and happy, and so are Mommy and Daddy.

Even if you don't agree with me, I'm pretty sure no one can argue with my results.

***

I have found, largely, that even among attachment-parenting-model parents, no one handles infant sleep exactly the same.

Each baby is different; each baby has different needs.

After several conversations with my good mama-blogging friends Brittany, Ashley, and Jenny, I've been considering writing a sleeping post, telling you all, with more detail, how we handle sleep in our house.

We'll see. If you're interested, let me know.

I just think it's sometimes nice to have other options besides the few expert opinions out there, especially when those don't work for you or your child.

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

Kicked Out Of Bed

So far, our little family of three has loved co-sleeping.

Ella sleeps great; my husband sleeps great. And I've slept pretty well.

Until yesterday.

Before that, Ella and I had gotten into a pretty good rhythm of middle-of-the-night feedings.

Because she sleeps on my chest or curled into my side, when she wakes up - which only happens about once a night - I literally pop her on the boob in less than 30 seconds.

She'll eat chow down ravenously for about four minutes, then eat contentedly for another six or so. After that, she'll slowly sip and comfort-nurse for another 10 minutes, and then, most of the time, she'll fall right back asleep.

I doze while she eats then tuck her back into my side when she pops off and fall back asleep myself.

Sometimes, I'll even beat her to it, falling back into a slumber before she finishes nursing, only to awake an hour or so later to realize Ella has released the nipple so that it's currently poking right into her sleeping little eye. Allegedly.

Still, it wasn't so bad. Considering the horror stories I hear of babies who confuse their nights for days, I figured I had it pretty good.

Ella is a champion sleeper, and getting up to feed her isn't nearly as bad as I imagined.

But last night, things were different.

After a hectic day, Ella was upset. She was screaming, in fact - something she really doesn't do a whole lot.

Upon further analysis, I realized that she hadn't napped well at all the entire day. This never bodes well for our evening hours. The poor girl always has a rough evening when she's over-tired.

So, I hopped in bed with her, trying to nurse her to sleep.

And I did so. Successfully. But it took me well over an hour.

She was off and on the boob the whole time, drifting to sleep and then waking up ticked off that she'd stopped nursing. My poor breasts were drained of all their milk - a major feat, considering I have an over-supply and could nurse triplets - and still, she kept at it.

Finally, I managed to keep her asleep, but frankly, I was afraid to move her. She was all sprawled out on my side of the bed, and, well, since she was finally asleep, I didn't want to ruin it. So, I maneuvered myself around her, propping myself up with pillows, and managed to fall asleep on the sliver of space she'd left me between her and my husband.

Flash-forward four hours later.

Ella's batting at my chest and trying to latch on. It's wake-up time.

So, I roll her onto my other side to nurse her, since she'd deflated my other breast with all her comfort nursing that evening, and I definitely had more milk on one side.

I popped her on and settled back and expected more of our normal routine.

Then, I remembered how over-tired she'd been four hours prior.

I knew I was going to pay.

Sure enough, she nursed for well over an hour and would not settle down.

She'd fall asleep and then wake up, fall asleep and then wake up. It was getting agonizing at 2 a.m. to have her little body thrashing around at my torso.

Then, finally, she stopped latching on.

Eyes shut, she continued to thrash, but was asleep enough that she wasn't able to nurse.

She just continued to fight sleep with her little arms and legs flailing about.

I considered swaddling her - a fate worse than death because she screams bloody-murder when swaddled and extricates herself from every swaddling blanket known to man, just like a little a Houdini. (She kept her hands by her face in the womb - I could feel them - and she does the same thing when she sleeps now.)

I even considered putting her in her pack-n-play on her belly, so she couldn't thrash around, but I knew the transfer would fully wake her up.

So, bleary-eyed and not so with it myself, I picked her up and propped her up smack dab in the middle of my pillows, trying to assess the situation.

But I couldn't. Didn't need to, in fact. Because she immediately stopped crying.

In fact, it was so instantaneous that she settled right down into a peaceful slumber while you could still hear her prior cries ringing through the air.

I chuckled to myself, looking at that little baby propped up on all my big pillows, figuring she'd had some gas bubble that was hurting her when she was laying on her side like she'd been.

So, I wagered I'd give her a few minutes then I'd move her onto my chest again, and we'd both fall asleep.

The next thing I knew, my alarm was going off.

Four hours had passed.

So I groggily woke up.

Half-way off of our king-sized bed.

It took me a minute to extricate myself from the comforter and my own stiff limbs and realize where I was.

In fact, one whole leg was off the bed, foot firmly planted on the floor. The corresponding arm was dangling off the bed as well, while my other arm was - and I'm not kidding you - grabbing onto the edge of the mattress for dear life, along with my other leg.

I was, honest to God, clenched on the edge of the mattress like a little boy climbing a tree trunk.

And then I looked up and saw my daughter.

Sleeping peacefully.

Still smack-dab in the middle of my pillows.

A little tiny baby on my half of our big king-sized bed.

I'd been booted out of bed by my own child.

Cribs are for babies, and apparently, Ella thinks she's too high-falutin' for those, anyway.

She prefers high-thread-count pillowcases and a plush body pillow, thank you very much. Mommy is optional.

Seven weeks old, and she's already running the show.

Meanwhile, I'm clinging onto our mattress for dear life, hoping that one day, I'll make it back into my own bed.

***

Happy Friday, everyone!

Bob Ross and Other Husband Soothers

My husband is finishing up a tremendously difficult six-month period at work.

He's wrapping up a part of his training that literally leaves many a man fallen in it's wake.

And, in 11 days, he's going to be done. Finished. Moved on from this phase of his military career.

Both of us couldn't be more thrilled.

After all, we're totally over him leaving for work before 5 a.m. and returning after midnight. We're done with the fact that he has no weekend - he hasn't had a single day off, Saturday or Sunday included, in months. We're through with the fact that he hasn't done a single thing but work-work-work for as long as we can remember.

It's not been a picnic, let me tell you.

Granted, the lifestyle hasn't been impossible. We're not unhappy people. I watch many a military wife around me crumble and cry about the fact that their husbands are never home or have no time for them and their kids while going through this phase of training. But that's not really my style. Neither the hubs or I wallow in that.

After all, it could be worse: He could be deployed. He could be failing. He could be miserable. He could be in danger. He could be hurt.

I think about that every single day.

Not that I don't occasionally, still, have a bad day. A day where I resent the fact that I'm doing everything all by myseslf. Or where I'm sitting alone on yet another Saturday night eating leftovers while he's at work.

Those days aren't the most fun.

But for the most part, we're happy. And we're A-OK.

Or, at least, I am.

The hubs? Yeah, he's happy. He's still his jolly old self, in fact. But he's also a fair bit sleep-deprived.

After all, he's averaging about four hours of sleep a night. Some nights, he gets less. And that pattern can carry on for days on end.

And, unfortunately, he's not me.

You see, I am the plucky one when it comes to exhaustion in our family. (Or I was before I got pregnant.)

I can survive on little-to-no sleep. I can push past exhaustion. I can get up at any hour, on any day, to do anything. I'm not as easily bothered by the fatigue headaches and the extreme bouts of irrational sleep deprivation.

The hubs? Not so much.

He likes to sleep. He needs to sleep. And when he's asleep, nothing else will disrupt it.

The man could sleep through a natural disaster. I'm not kidding, he's actually slept through a small fire - and the resulting noise and chaos it took to extinguish it - before.

People always ask if he'll be a helpful husband when Baby Girl cries in the middle of the night.

Without hesitation, I always immediately answer, "No. No way."

But it's not because he doesn't want or care to help. It's because she could be sitting directly on his head, pooping out her diaper, screaming bloody murder, while whacking him over the head with her baby feet and fists, and he'd continue to sleep.

Seriously, when he's out, he's that out.

Meanwhile, I wake up when the wind blows. A pin drops. The baby next door turns over in his crib.

I am a tremendously light sleeper.

It takes one, tiny alarm to wake me up in the morning, if I need it at all. And when it goes off, I'm up. I don't hit snooze. I don't sleep through it. I'm awake.

But the hubsters? Not so much.

He normally tries to wake up by 4:30 a.m. Which means, in order to do this, he has to set a minimum of three alarms - loud, obnoxious, pealing alarms - and set them all over the room, so he can't grab them within an arm's reach of the bed.

He then staggers their ringing, starting an hour before he intends to rise. Oh yes, the first one goes off at 3:30 a.m. Followed by the next at 3:32. Followed by the next at 3:34.

Not that it matters. Because he sleeps through them all, anyways.

It literally takes me beating him and ramming my entire body into him for him to get up and turn them off.

Though he sleeps through me doing that, too. He just stays asleep and hits snooze.

Then the cycle starts again. Alarm One goes off at 3:35. Alarm Two goes off at 3:37. Alarm Three goes off at 3:39.

And I'm awakened by every single one of them yet again. I then commence the hitting and the body-slamming until he sits up and turns them off, again, all in his sleep. This pattern continues on for a minimum of 45 minutes every morning.

Basically, I've stopped trying to sleep between the hours of 3:30 and 5:30 a.m. Which stinks, because at least three days a week, I get up at 4:45 a.m. myself to go to work.

It's worsened by the fact that I start off every morning ticked as all get out at the man sleeping next to me.

I'm pregnant. I'm tired. I was up waiting for him to get home the night before. And now, I'm awake. Wide awake.

Slightly nauseous. Baby kicking. Bladder rapidly filling. Head ringing from his various alarms.

I want to kill him.

Not that he feels much better. Because, by the time he manages to actually rouse himself, I've managed to punch, kick, and hit him no less than 35 times. (I'm not exaggerating. We've had mornings where his alarms have gone off no less than 35 times.)

He's bruised and battered and finally awake enough to stare into the face of a glowering, hare-brained, pregnant woman.

One who, most of the time, is pretty much screaming at him, "Get up! Just get up! I swear, I have been awake for the last 90 minutes because of you, and if you don't get out of this bed RIGHT NOW, I'm gonna whip out the ugly cry, because I feel so miserable, and you're just snoozing away, and I hate these alarms, and well, getupgetupgetupGETUP!"

It's not a fine way to start the day.

Still, if my concerns only ended there.

You see, with a newborn, this is so not going to work. After all, she's going to be sleeping in a pack-n-play next to our bed for at least a few months. She's going to hear every ear-splitting alarm he sets off, too.

That, right there, is reason enough for me to consider maiming him. Or at least consider having my own bedroom. (The Cleavers weren't so dense, after all.)

Too bad our house is too small. And too bad he actually relies on me to get him up.

Sigh.

Unfortunately, though, our wake-up woes don't end there.

Some mornings, he's actually gotten up, gotten dressed, walked out of the room to his breakfast (pre-prepared for him), sat down on the couch to eat it, and fallen back asleep.

I've found him there, snoozing on the sofa in full uniform, an hour later. Late for work.

You should have heard me scream.

Which is why, now, when he finally rises from the bed, I don't trust him.

About 10 minutes later, I follow him into the rest of the house to make sure he's not sleeping again in some dark corner. (I'm actually not capable of letting him be late to work. The consequences are too dire, plus, you all know how I feel about timeliness.)

But by that time, I'm really awake. Wide, wide awake.

It's maddening.

The worst part is, my husband is also thrown ajar by all this. He hates mornings all the more because they're so rushed and so cranky and so, well, sudden, that he finds it stresses him to the max.

And that's not good, considering the stress he's already under most of the day.

Which is why, a few weeks ago, I walked into the living room at 5 a.m., to check once again that he was really awake, and found him watching this:

source

Oh, yes, that's Bob Ross.

The hubs was watching an old episode of Bob's The Joys of Painting, in which Bob was pleasantly and calmly explaining how to paint a quaint cabin on a lake, giggling and waving his paintbrush back and forth, Afro a-bobbing.

My husband sat there, listening intently, eating his oatmeal.

But it was more than I could take.

"What in the heck are you doing?" I yelled.

I wasn't sure what to make of what lay before me, but my husband wasn't swayed.

"I'm watching Bob Ross," he said, simply. "Just listen to him. Listen to his voice. It's just so relaxing. You know, I find him very soothing."

I couldn't believe it. My husband, after our typical, tumultuous wake-up routine, was seeking refuge in a softly spoken man wearing tight, denim bell-bottoms, all because he found him "soothing."

It took every ounce of strength I had not to scream at him, "Soothing? SOOTHING? Maybe you should try waking up with just one alarm! That sounds soothing to me!"

But, instead, I turned around and walked back to bed, trying to gain about 20 minutes sleep before I had to get up and go to work myself.

I tried to relish the fact that my husband was a little less stressed going to work that morning. I tried to revel in the truth that maybe I could find an alarm with Bob Ross' voice, and that would enable the hubs to rise quickly and elegantly from the bed every morning from here on out.

I tried to imagine that we'd maybe, just maybe, found a solution to our sleep problems.

Then, the next morning, at 3:30 a.m., his first alarm went off again.

It then took me more than an hour to get him out of bed. I had to wake him up from the couch twice. And, thus, he was late to work, took my car, and I had to walk to my job later that morning.

Soothed, my butt.

***

For the record: We have tried every gimmick and crazy alarm trick known to man with my husband. Short of hiring him a nanny to quietly get him up and get him dressed, trust me, it's been done in my house. And none of it works. He sleeps like the dead. And it's worse when he's tired. When it's not 3:30 a.m., and I'm a bit more rational, I feel bad for him. The man really can't seem to help it. I mean, he's very hard-working and dedicated in every other aspect of our lives. It's only in his sleep habits where he greatly resembles a sloth. And, once he's finally awake enough to mean it and be coherent, he's even apologetic about that fact, too. It's puzzling and maddening and seemingly impossible all at the same time.

The good news is, once he finishes this phase of training, we're hoping to instill some more solid sleeping habits in him, before the baby gets here. So May will be the month in which I sleep-train my own husband. And this time, he doesn't have a choice. There will be no going back to his old ways - he's "relapsed" with his alarm addiction more times than I can remember - because he will have one very angry new mother yelling in his face.

***

Happy Monday, y'all!

Pillow Fight

I'm a prissy sleeper, I'll admit.

I love to sleep on my stomach, cuddled under several blankets and surrounded by pillows.

I put a pillow under my head and a pillow on each side of me, so if I so choose to roll onto my side in the middle of the night, I can prop myself up on a shoulder and use one of the side pillows for support.

It's like my little own cocoon, really. I love it. It soothes me to sleep quickly.

Unless, of course, my husband has something to say about it.

Because last night, I set up my three pillows and plush blankets, cuddled down, and fell right asleep. Only to find myself wide awake three hours later.

Wide awake and laying atop a cold, hard mattress.

All three of my pillows gone, gone, and gone.

Both on each side of me, and, worst of all, the one under my head, had vanished.

Not that I had to look far to find them.

Because all of them - all of them! - were snugly positioned under my husband's crown, along with his own three pillows, leaving him reclining on bed of six pillows, arms thrown akimbo, as if he was some kind of king.

It seemed, at some point, in his sleep or awake, the man had stolen all three of my precious pillows and stuffed them under his own big head.

At 1 a.m., I was truly in shock. And not strong enough to remove them from underneath his amazingly heavy upper body.

So I lay there, flummoxed.

After all, I've accept that with marriage comes many compromises: Cooking things I don't really like; watching movies I don't really enjoy, and living with the fact that socks will never end up in the hamper where they belong.

But when you're messing with my sleep? By stealing my precious pillows no less?

This was not in the marriage contract.

In fact, I thought we expressly agreed:

To love and remain faithful forever, and never to steal each other's pillows, so help us God.

Sigh.

Now I know why the Cleavers had separate beds.

***

Happy Friday, everyone!

It's Back

I was quite the insomniac as a child.

A combination of night terrors, a worrisome personality, and a generally high energy level left me unable to sleep many a night as a kid.

I remember crying in my bed when it was raining, worried about my mother who'd gone out late to run a quick errand without three children in tow.

I remember waking up at 2 a.m. with a start, freaked out, yelling for my parents, hating that I was alone, in my room, in the dark.

I remember hiding under the covers with a flash-light and a stack of books, not only refusing to go to bed, but downright determined not to fall asleep even on my own time clock.

Sleep was not a respite for me.

I spent many a night, after midnight, creeping into my parents' room or my brothers' room, holding my pillow and blanket, and after hours, I'd finally falling asleep on their respective floors.

In high-school, it only got marginally better. I woke up before 5 a.m. to go to swim practice before school, and then, being a Type-A personality and a social butterfly, I stayed up late studying and having fun with friends.

College was a little easier, but not much. I started out living in a dormitory where the heat, when starting up, clanged loud enough to wake the dead, so I always slept in fits and starts, until I moved into a townhouse with my best friends, only to hear several terrifying tales of predators seeking young college girls (I worked at the local newspaper) which rendered me so terrified that I often shared a bed with my roommate.

I later graduated to a job where I was routinely woken up by children having ailments ranging from seizures to asthma attacks in the middle of the night, so I slept little right out of college, as well.

And it wasn't until I got married that I finally found some peace in my bedroom, so to speak. Literally, I could have slept through a war after the I-dos. My sleep was as different as day and night, no pun intended.

I chalked it up to the fact that my husband made me feel safe. I figured this meant I never had to sleep alone again. And I liked that, if need be, I could awake somebody with my worries and pains should they occur in the wee morning hours.

And then my husband joined the military.

I was fine, until he left back in February. And then I spent a few fruitless months tired. I was sleeping, better than I had been pre-husband, but it wasn't as good as when he was sawing wood by my side.

Luckily, we moved to South Carolina back in June, and just as soon as I could say "Good night" our first night here, I fell into a peaceful slumber. I went right back into my solid, steady, married sleep pattern, and it hasn't altered since.

That is, until, last week.

Because as of last Thursday, it seems my insomnia has come back in full force.

I woke up with a start at 3 a.m. And I could not get back to sleep.

I tossed and turned. I prayed and begged God. I watched an entire disc of Friends and read four chapters in my new book. I even got up and changed into a sweatshirt, peed, and drank a glass of warm water.

I tried everything in my power to woo myself back to slumber.

And nothing.

I was up. I was anxious. And I hadn't a clue why.

Finally, I gave in. I kept reading till my 6 a.m. alarm went off, then I got out of bed and went to work.

I shrugged it off as something I ate. I figured it was a fluke.

Until the exact same thing happened Friday night.

I was so incapable of sleeping that night that I started my Saturday at 6 a.m. My dog's bladder has never been more thankful that the one day I can sleep in, I didn't.

I was exhausted by the time Saturday night rolled around. We stayed up past midnight and everything, in hopes of coaxing even more exhaustion on.

Which we did. Successfully, at first. I was out quick. As soon as my head hit the pillow, in fact. But only for about an hour.

And then every hour on the hour, I awoke. Wide awake. Without the slightest idea why. Again and again and again.

I was only more stumped by Sunday night. That evening, I got no more than two hours of sleep. It took me three hours to even fall asleep in the first place, and then, by the time I did, I'd awake every 30 minutes or so, my eyes snapping open like blinds with whiplash.

And I still hadn't the faintest idea why.

I'd watched my food intake. I haven't touched caffeine in months. My husband was snoozing away next to me. I normally crave at least seven hours of sleep a night. I was wearing my favorite sleeping sweatshirt. The house was the perfect temperature.

I was stumped.

And wide, wide awake.

I couldn't get comfortable. I was having semi-delusional thought patterns. The light coming from my husband's computer screen in the other room annoyed me. Heck, my sleeping-like-a-baby husband annoyed me.

But doing what I could to cope with all those things didn't help. I was still incapable of achieving a dream state.

And - one more time for the people in cheap seats! - I still had no earthly clue why.

I wracked my brain, figuring I'd forgotten something or assuming I'd buried something deep down on the inside that was fighting to get out.

Except I wasn't. It couldn't have been.

In fact, due to my early rising, I'd had an abnormally productive weekend. I should have been resting easy.

Yet I couldn't have been further from it.

So, now, I turn to you. Tell me where the source of my problem lies. And, for the love of all things holy, please tell me how to fix it.

Because pretty soon, I'm gonna clunk my peacefully sleeping husband over the head with my alarm clock just out of sheer spite and pure jealousy.

What? If I can't sleep, he can't, either!

I swear, it's in our marital contract. That whole "in sickness and health" part.

Well, this qualifies as a "sickness," I'd say. And he better work on his bedside manner - literally - before neither one of us ever sleeps again.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Back to Bed

Yesterday was bad.

It even started out horribly. Painfully. My heart was broken yet again*.

I wanted to cry so badly it gave me chest pains.

And I would have given in to the urge right then and there if I didn't have to go into work at the ungodly hour of 6 a.m.

I wholeheartedly wished, in that moment, that I was one of those people who had the ability to falsely call in sick without guilt.

But I'm not.

So I went to the gym. Where, it has to be said, I taught the world's most boring spin class. I'm pretty sure I was a monotone, un-emotive automaton. Exercising and giving instruction but lacking all zest.

I just wanted to survive the hour.

Luckily, I'd been able to stack all my privately trained clients later in the week, so, after the class, I was able to retreat to my car for an hour.

And cry.

Over a Thermos of tea, I bawled.

Then I wiped my eyes off and went back into the gym to run my post-partum small group training class. Which almost killed me. Honestly, it had to be one of the longest hours of my life.

Then, back to the car I went. More crying. More tea. More gratuitous wearing of sunglasses.

I returned to the gym to teach one more class before I was blessedly released home at 1 p.m.

There, I got in the shower and slumped to the tile floor crying. I righted myself, got dressed, and then proceeded to do the very same slump-and-sob in the kitchen while unloading the dishwasher and later in our office while checking my e-mail.

I was so upset I'd rendered myself unable to function.

So, I did the unthinkable. I did the most childish, unreasonable, irrational, selfish thing to do.

I went back to bed.

At 2 p.m., I turned on Season 2 of Friends, cuddled down in our king-size mattress and comforter, and lay there crying, with only Marvin the Dog for company (who gets so freaked out when I cry that he insists on burying his nose in my face, which makes it rather hard to breathe for the both us, but is oddly comforting nonetheless.)

I wanted to be alone. I ignored phone calls and text messages and the alarm on my cell phone reminding me to get up and take my vitamins. I lay there, curled in a fetal position, with the dog's nose in my face, hearing the on-again, off-again shenanigans involved in the Rachel-and-Ross romance that always entertains me in almost every circumstance.

Every circumstance except this one, that is.

I pulled my sweatshirt's hoodie over my head and just cried some more.

Chores, cooking, and responsibilities aside, I lay in bed all afternoon. No one was there to stop me.

Then again, no one was there to help me, either. Or comfort me. Or wipe my snotty nose.

Which was fine. The only person I could have handled seeing was my husband. And he wasn't supposed to be home till 9 p.m. that night.

And, unless I planned on calling the emergency number (they are not allowed to have cell phones on them at work) there was no way he'd know what kind of pain I was in.

So I didn't even so much as pick up my phone.

As far as I was concerned, I had four hours to pull myself together before he walked through the door; I had four hours to get this out my system so he didn't have to deal with it.

Which is why I was so shocked to hear the front door open just 15 minutes later.

I hear the hubs' boots hit our kitchen floor at 4:15 p.m. and make his way back to our bedroom.

He found me seconds later, and without me saying even a word, he knew what I was doing and why I was there.

He climbed right into bed, boots and all, with me.

He held on tight while I wracked both our bodies with sobs.

He stroked my stringy hair and kissed my salty face.

Then, finally, he told me he had to go. He had to get back to work.

So, he left.

I'm not even sure why he came home in the first place. Or how he knew I'd be there. In bed. Crying. He was in and out so fast, I never asked.

But thank heavens he came. Even if he went.

Because the rest of the evening was more of the same.

At one point, I managed to sit up and eat some fruit. And I managed to e-mail my boss and Google a few things.

But more than six minutes of normalcy would set off the waterworks again. And I was back into my crutch of a bed, crying my eyes out.

Being an uncharacteristic version of me.

I am normally very good at pulling myself together. At finding solutions for any problem. At blustering my way through life, making of it what I want it to be.

I choose the high-road often. I consider fairness, and I consider others. And I am hopeful on the surface and effusively filled with plans to make it all work out.

But some things hit so deep that they bring out the inner, pessimistic core in who I am. They sap me of hope and render me completely incapable of doing things like unloading a dishwasher.

They rob me of my ability to function.

They are very few, and they are very far between.

Because I'm not a moper; I'm not a dweller.

I get over and on with things fast. And in true, stubborn-streak fashion.

But, as my husband told me last night, this isn't an issue of fairness. I couldn't be broken-hearted over "fairness," no matter how many times I cried that "It's not fair!"

Still, that's hard for me to accept.

So hard, in fact, that it drove me back to bed for the day.

***

*I am not yet comfortable sharing too much of what upset me yesterday on my blog. Maybe one day. But not now. I couldn't explain it all anyways. I'd cry so hard I couldn't see the computer screen. Plus, I'm feeling a sense of hopelessness right now, and because of that, I really don't want to talk about it anymore. To anyone. In real life, in blog-land, anywhere. Soon. I promise. I'll be able to talk about it soon, I hope. Suffice it to say that no one is dying or physically hurt. I don't want to panic you all. One day, perhaps, I'll even be able to say that I was acting melodramatic. But I can't get to that place right now. So, for now, all prayers are appreciated. Thank you for listening.

Happy Tuesday everyone. Be back tomorrow with something a little bit more cheerful.

Blogging Tired

On Monday night, I sat down on my couch at 8:58 p.m. and proceeded to turn on the T.V.

I didn't bring my laptop with me; I didn't brew a cup of mint tea to sip on; I didn't even call the dog over to sit on my feet while I watched-e-mailed-blogged-drank.

I just sat and grabbed the remote.

And, 15 minutes later, I was no longer sitting.

I was instead lying on my side, head on a throw pillow, with an old college blanket wrapped around my shoulders.

Dozing.

Dozing off in the middle of last week's Real Housewives of New Jersey.

The world as we know it must have stopped turning, I tell you.

How? Why? Well...

Fact #1: As horrible as this is to admit, I could watch the Real Housewives over and over and over again. They are just that disturbing and just that entertaining and just another fabulous reason for me to stay up past my bed time. I can't ever get enough, and - at times, I'll admit - I've lost sleep analyzing their crazy-people antics.

Fact #2: I'm ADD about my television-watching. I need to be sitting upright, sewing or scrap-booking and reading other blogs while I watch TV, or else I'm wracked with guilt about wasting time.

So the fact that I was supine on the couch, unable to focus on the most ostentatious and ridiculous of reality television shows, means something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Still, worse trials were yet to come.

Because 10 o'clock struck, and this week's new episode of Real Housewives previewed on the television screen. If there ever was a time to sit up, take notice, and pay attention to every ridiculous thing these larger-than-life women were saying, it was now. I was seconds away from this week's dose of fresh, Jersey-licious fodder.

But, instead of heeding the call of big hair and spray tans and righting myself with open eyelids, I did the unthinkable.

I turned the television off and went to bed.

Of my own accord.

With no prompting from my husband.

With no prodding from my dog.

I just got up and walked myself to our bedroom, with nary a thought to the catty women and "bubby" talk I was missing.

I passed up my favorite TV hour of the week for an extra hour of sleep.

Now, I don't want to panic anybody. At this point, I just seemed to be following the thought pattern of an extremely rational woman. (Granted, that should have been my first clue. A girl doesn't just get up one day and start thinking rationally.)

Still, all seemed to be well in my peaceful slumber.

Until the alarm went off at 4:30 a.m.

I managed to right myself enough to pack my husband a lunch and make him a quick cup of coffee and some breakfast.

Or so I assume, because I don't really remember doing all that. At this point, it's all hearsay, as my husband said he ate that morning and the dirty dishes in the sink support his theory.

Still, after he left for work, I must have gone back to bed.

Because that's where I was when my alarm went off at 6 a.m.

And then again at 7 a.m.

And then again at 7:15 a.m.

And then again at 7:30 a.m. And 7:40 a.m. And 7:45 a.m.

I hit snooze each time.

I even reset the alarm once.

And, finally, at 8 a.m., I just turned the whole thing off.

At 8:45 a.m., I awoke with a start, staring with guilt at the clock's digital read-out, knowing I should have been awake three hours prior.

Truth be told, I haven't hit the snooze button on my alarm clock in the last four years.

Honestly, I'm not even sure how I even found it in the middle of my sleep-induced stupor.

Worse yet, I haven't slept in that late in more than 12 months. That includes weekends.

And to top it all off, I could have kept going.

If it wasn't for Marvin the Dog, nudging my foot with his cold nose, I'd have slept clear through to noon, it seems.

For a woman who's used to existing on five hours sleep a night, this was record-breaking.

And slightly freaky.

I honestly patted myself down once I was out of bed, feeling for any stray lumps and bumps and wondering if some fast-arriving cancer was weighing my energy-level down.

I peered the back of my throat in the mirror, examining it for inflammation and oncoming signs of strep.

I even took my temperature, convinced I had a fever. Convinced that I'd have to be out of my sane, healthy mind if I could sleep 10 hours without stopping.

Turns out, though, I'm completely healthy.

No visible cancer. Clear nasal passages. A solid 98.6-degree body temperature.

The old bod, it seems, has never felt better.

Except for the fact that, after sleeping 10.5 hours Monday night, I was still tired. I actually contemplated taking a nap that afternoon.

I would have, too, if I wasn't so behind on my scheduled list of things to-do, thanks to the extra three hours of sleep I'd procured that morning.

Sweet dreams were all I was dreaming of.

Lord help me, I started planning my next bed-time at 10 a.m. Tuesday.

I actually considered leaving my husband a plate of dinner on the table, with a note, "Gone back to bed. Don't wake me unless it's an emergency. And put your dish in the dishwasher."

Obviously, I'm sleep-deprived.

It's either that, or some strange and tired alien has taken over my body.

After all, I just wrote an entire blog post about my new, exhaustive sleep habits. Which probably bored a few of you into a peaceful slumber, I imagine.

My sincerest apologies.

Oh, heck, who am I kidding? I've almost bored myself into a peaceful slumber with this one.

Not that it would take much.

***

Happy Wednesday everyone! Be back tomorrow with more energetic ramblings.

The unibrow has spoken

I woke up yesterday, did the pre-coffee shuffle to the bathroom, and wearily gazed at the mirror as I splashed some water on my face.

As the sleep began to fall away, and as I began to straighten up and actually make eye contact with my reflected self, I realized, for the first time, that I looked tired.

That there was no hiding it anymore.

Two prominent items on my countenance served as two glaring reminders that, indeed, life has been handing me a swift kick in the butt as of late.

I stared at them - my two nemeses, the literal representations of my exhaustion.

At first, I wasn't sure I could face them. I'd been in denial. For quite some time, apparently.

But I had to face them. I had no other choice. Because, after all, the problem was literally on my face.

My eyebrows, it seemed, had finally given up.

Both of the hairy beasts actually appeared to be jumping ship, leaving behind my exhausted looking mug and taking on a life of their own, far away from my careless swipes with the eyebrow comb.

The left one had started to grow upward, giving me a permanently perplexed, questioning look. But sadly, it looked intentional, as I've apparently got a slight bald spot between my left eyebrow and the new little upward partition it's added on.

I vaguely resembled one of those punk teenagers I teach, who shave "sweet" patterns into their brows.

Not to be outdone, my right brow had taken it upon itself to keep my face balanced. It seemed to be making quite an effort to grow down my eyelid and meld into the top row of my eyelashes.

Perhaps it's simply trying to give my eyelids a little more color. Save me the trouble of putting on eye shadow, if you will. Unfortunately, though, its fuzzy tactile properties leave it a little less than desirable.

In addition, both brows were also growing outward at a rapid rate. I actually appeared to have wraparound sunglasses made of eyebrow hair trekking across my face and into my hairline.

It's a dramatic statement - one I didn't intend to make, granted - but nonetheless, dramatic.

And don't even get me started on the hair on the bridge of my nose. Between Thing 1 and Thing 2, the hair seemed to have taken on a wiry texture all its own, complete with a rebellious attitude.

It seemed to say, "We'll be your faithful unibrow, whether you want one or not. We've got pluck, and we don't pluck easy."

Can you guess where I'm going with this?

I. Have. No. Time.

And. The. Brows. Are. Ticked.

Yes, it's safe to say that my eyebrows are now tattling on me. In a big way.

You see, I'm still pretty wrinkle free. And I'm not prone to dark undereye circles.

But my eyebrows? My eyebrows are my Judas.

They betray my confidence and my inner pleas of "Can I please call in sick today? I'm so, so, so tired!" which are strictly between me and my face. (Or so I thought.)

Sure, the brows are a little bitter. They miss the good old days, the days when I actually had time to worry about whether or not furry-caterpillar-like creatures were growing on my face.

In fact, while in college, I was down right OCD about my eyebrow care. I actually perched on the sink and tweezed them at least four times a week. (It was my secret single behavior.)

Now?

Not so much.

Because now? Now I have that teensy-weensy little irritation of a thing called a job, which currently requires me to work 50+ hour weeks.

I don't exactly have a lot of extra quality time to spend with my easy-grip Tweezers.

And so, the brows have gotten the shaft amid the rest of my jam-packed schedule.

Still, not yesterday. Something had to be done.

I told myself that I couldn't go to school and make any more small children cry.

So, I went for the Tweezers, figuring a good five minutes would help, or at least hold me over until I could find the time to really get a good perch going in the sink later that night.

I searched high and low. I checked every make-up bag, every shelf in the medicine cabinet, even the bathroom trash can.

I even pilfered through my husbands toiletries, to no avail.

My handy-dandy Tweezers were nowhere to be found.

Then I remembered....

I had taken the Tweezers to the original source of all my brow woes:

The school. My job. The place teachers with formerly nice eyebrows go to die.

Two weeks ago, I'd brought them to work, so they could double as a pair of needle-pose pliers, which are apparently necessary when I'm forced to extricate my computer from my classroom's projector cord every day.

Crud.

With no choice left, I set out for school, determined to snag a few moments alone in the teachers' bathroom, just me, my Tweezers, and Thing 1 and Thing 2.

Until....I broke the copy machine, had to give a kid detention before school started, and directed a screaming parent to another teacher's office. Then there were classes to teach and papers to grade. Some more kids had breakdowns. I had a mini blood-sugar crash when I realized I'd forgotten my lunch. I actually fell asleep at my desk for 10 minutes after the kids were dismissed for a quick class assembly. Then I woke up, and (you guessed it) there were more classes to teach and more papers to grade.

And now here I sit, typing, brows a-flowin'.

I still haven't found my Tweezers, and if I focus long enough, I'm pretty sure I can feel the unibrow closing ranks and taking root.

I may have missed the window of opportunity.

Unibrow: 1. Brittany: 0.

May the pluckiest woman live.

***

Happy Thursday everyone!

Dear Evening Brittany...

I know we've never met, seeing as how I run with the early-hours crowd and you hang out alone at night, so allow me to introduce myself.

I am Morning Brittany. We inhabit the same body, but that's about all we have in common.

You see, I rise early and am in charge of getting our body to the gym and then to school, where I have to fight off lots and lots of insults, epithets, and germs, slung at me by cranky teens. I grade papers, do laundry, and efficiently sort through and answer e-mails.

I ingest a healthy breakfast and several cups of coffee, all carefully designed to keep our body going throughout the work day, making sure we have enough energy to do what we need to do.

I do this, all of this, even though I live a fairly miserable existence. When I am forced to awaken at 5 a.m., I am groggy and tired and pretty much hate the fact that I have to get up. My only happy thought is: "Don't worry, Morning Brittany. You will be able to get back into this bed in a mere 16-17 hours. Just fight through the day, and you can return to your pillow and blanket."

But see, the thing is, Evening Brittany, you've been robbing me of my sole consolation prize lately. You, frankly, have been functioning so selfishly that, when I arise, I can't even muster up the courage to count down the hours until I get into bed again.

For Lord knows what reason, you get a second wind when you take over at around 5 p.m., Evening Brittany. While I've been dragging us through the day, miserable, tired and wishing/hoping/dreaming of a good night's sleep, you get the ridiculous idea that your time, the night time, is prime time.

You read blogs. You watch movies. You eat snacks. You cuddle with the dog. You hang with the hubs. You start craft projects. You read books. You sift through magazines. You exercise, again!

You do everything but take a hot shower and put us to bed!

Why, Evening Brittany, why?

Why do you think it's a good idea to "just read one more chapter," or "scan over my Google Reader one more time, real quick," or watch "just one more episode in the 18 Kids and Counting! marathon. What's 22 minutes, plus commercials?"

I'll tell you what it is, Evening Brittany. That's 22 minutes out of our sleep time! That's 22 minutes I need if I'm going to continue to get our rumpus out of bed again in what often becomes less than six hours!

Where does your energy come from, Evening Brittany? How can you stay awake till midnight when I so clearly can't function at my 5 a.m. report time?

Oh, wait, I know. It's all the crud you insist on ingesting at around 7:30 p.m!

Sure. Popcorn is high in fiber, but must you eat the whole bowl? And don't think I didn't see the huge bowl of fruit salad you ate last night. And yes, I also saw that scoop of vanilla ice cream the fruit was so "cleverly" hiding. It's like you don't even care about all the careful consideration I gave every morsel I put in our mouth earlier that day. You will blow it all away for a night-time apple-cinnamon muffin!

Evening Brittany, listen to me. Put down the late-night Chex Mix and listen to me.

I've had enough. I can no longer function after you go off on your constant late-night solo parties with your books, blogs, and DVDs.

We have to sleep a little.

Now, wait a minute. I'm not asking for the moon. I'm not even asking for nine hours of sleep. I'll take eight, or heck, I'll take seven.

Please, just remember me when you get home and get inspired to do all the things you don't have time to do during the day. Think about your pillow and blanket.

Think about your dog. Yes, the dog is on my side. See him staring at you from the hallway, looking back and forth between you and the bedroom? He knows it's time for bed! Why don't you?

I appreciate you taking the time to read this, Evening Brittany. I know your time is short, what with all the blogs and books you want to read. I'm sorry if I was too blunt; I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings. I just ask that you take this into consideration the next time your Google Reader calls to you.

Until we meet again (you know, when Afternoon Brittany decides to take one of the two naps she takes every year).

Sincerely,
Morning Brittany