We're Baaaaaack!

I wanted to write last night--really I did. My brain tried to talk me into it.

"C'mon, Melia, you'll feel great once you get going; it's only the beginning that hurts a but. Just think of how accomplished you'll feel afterward, and you could really use a chance to burn off some frustration." Oddly enough, my brain tries the same speech when it wants me to exercise, with identical results. That's why no entry was posted last night, and it's also why I'm still carrying baby fat from a pregnancy ten years ago. (Apparently it's the last fifty pounds that are the hardest to lose. Who knew?) My brain, it seems, is a poor motivational speaker.

The brain was willing, but the rest of me didn't give a flying fig.

Actually, for a flying fig I might have made an effort, but alas, no figs, and therefore no altitude gain from said nonexistent fruit. (Note to brain: Next spring, if you still hold out optimism to get me on the treadmill, remind me to plant as fig tree first. Apparently I'll do anything for seedy purplish fruit with unsuspected aviation talents.)

Still, fig or no fig, why would I have passed up a chance to broadcast my every insignificant thought? (I have no pretensions about my place in the grand scheme of the collective cultural consciousness--the blog name says it all.) After all, it's not like I've shown any hesitancy before in commenting endlessly on the trivial minutiae of Melia. Ah, but this time I had a good excuse. His name is Anders, and he's a tiny cranky tiger.

I thought he was just getting feistier when he punched me in the face from three a.m. until five-thirty. (Perhaps he's having extra-tigerish dreams. Awwww, isn't that cute.)

I passed it off as grooming reminder and nothing else when he spent an entire evening clawing the skin off my chin. (Time to trim those nails. Dear me, how quickly they grow.)

But when he spent an entire sacrament meeting asleep I knew something was wrong. This is the boy who spent the previous Sunday using the sweet sister who sits behind us as his personal jumpy seat. This is the child who has to be pulled out from under the table twenty times in one dinner--not bad when you consider that our average family meal only lasts ten minutes. (They're polite, but chewing just isn't their style.) This is a baby who will not quit. Until Sunday.

And of course, he had to do it the day before his father left for a four-day trip to New York. He has timing. (Take your pick as to the antecedent on that sentence; it applies equally well to both.)

So I've spent the last three days trying to keep the older three children occupied, organized, and on schedule while constantly jiggling up and down to soothe a crabby tiger. It has not been pretty. Avoid the mental image if you can.--Sorry, too late.

I dosed with Tylenol. I administered ibuprofen. I encouraged liquids--thank goodness that's the accepted wisdom, because encouraging a steak dinner would be impossible at this age. Monday night I got desperate for relief--his and mine--and wrapped him in wet towels. We spent a soggy, sleepless night on the couch. I believe we dozed between one and two a.m.

It seems I don't function well with that little sleep.

So there was no way in a small town in Michigan that I could have constructed a coherent sentence yesterday. (Yeah, I know, it's never stopped me before. But this time it was exhaustion rather than just mental catharsis that I had to consider. I was being kind to everyone involved.)

Today, though, is another story. I had a full TWO hours of sleep last night, and Anders' fever broke sometime around three a.m. We're both back in action.

Roberto owes me BIG TIME for this week.

Feeling fine and back to chewing on innocent insectoids.

Anders isn't too bad. either.