As my faithful readers may have figured out by now, I am not a happy camper when I don't get enough sleep. I am not an "average" adult. Average adults get 6-7 hours of sleep a night and function quite spectacularly. I get 7-8 hours a night and if I don't, hide. You might want to consider wearing clothes that match the wallpaper if I was on the 7 side of that.
I wasn't always like this. I used to survive just fine on 5 or 6 hours of sleep. I once spent an entire day touring Windsor and Oxford with just 45 minutes of sleep the night, er early morning before.
But, alas, I grew old. Old and tired. Now, I love my sleep, I obsess over sleep, I revel in sleep. But for the past two weeks, my sleep has been limited. Instead of 7-8 hours a night, I have been getting who-knows-how-much-because-I-only-sleep-in-fits-and-starts. I go to sleep, then I wake because the baby is crying, then I go back to sleep and then I wake and have to use the bathroom, then I go back to sleep and then I wake because Brynna's had a nightmare, then I go back to sleep and... Oh, you get the picture. Additionally, my body has decided to wake every morning at five just because it can. My clock tells me it's five, the dark between the curtains tells me it's five, but my body says nope, not going back to sleep until at least 5:40. Why 5:40? Because the alarm goes off at 5:45. Why does the alarm go off at 5:45? Because it takes The Husband 45 minutes to get out of bed.
And so, I am crabby. Constantly. I can only complain, it seems. Every little thing sends me off the deep end and I want to strangle the next high-pitched voice having, cute and cuddly, absent parented cartoon character that graces my TV. Even the ones that normally don't annoy me. Okay, so imagining Wubbzy broken and in a pool of blood is not entirely unusual for me, but wishing death on Toot and Puddle kinda is.
I want my old self back. I want to not care what's on the before-bedtime-TV as long as I have a good book. I want to not start trying to put my kids to bed the minute we walk in the door. I want to not throw eye-daggers at my husband for asking for the ten million and ninth time if I'm okay. Okay? Okay? Do I look okay? I will never again be okay? Do you want to know why I'm not okay? Because you keep freakin' asking me, that's why.
And I know how to get the old me back. Ten hours. A ten hour night. With no interruptions, no light, no alarm, no crying baby or scared preschooler, no freaking out because she's afraid of storms dog. It's what I call a catch up night. And I need one. When, oh, when, will I receive my next catch up night? Oh, I'm thinking on Maren's 18th birthday...
In bloggy news, I will eventually get back to my Friday "What's in my Crochet Bag." The sad, sad truth is that ever since I sewed on that sweater sleeve wrong side out, I haven't touched a hook. I am too frustrated to take the sleeve off and I am too stubborn to start on a new project when that one is soooo close to getting done. I probably have, like ten hours in that sweater and I could seriously finish it in one more, fixed sleeve and all, but oh, please, don't make me touch it. The good news is that it's freakin' hot and ridiculously humid, so I won't need said sweater until October, at least. So, I am just going to bury it at the bottom of the basket and move on.
I have patterns waiting for chemo hats for charity, a market bag because I think I'm the only person on Earth who still doesn't have one, a piece of fillet work for a wedding present and dishcloths, lots of dishcloths. Also, I have a pattern for a crocheted flower girl basket. Brynna has not been asked to be in any weddings, but I believe I have to make it, just because it's so disgustingly cute.