Let Sleeping People Lie

by Cathy

'If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?'

We've all heard some variation of the above phrase.
Therefore, I got to thinking that similarly, if we snore/whisper/talk/scream/fart/teeth-grind/walk/jerk in our sleep, do we realize it?

We've all no doubt been told by those who sleep in the same room with us that we _______ in our sleep.  And of course, we vehemently deny these antics occur because, duh, we're asleep...what the hell do we know? Yet we insist:
"Hell, NO I don't _________ in my sleep!"

Now, I know that I don't scream in my sleep. How can I be so sure, you ask, since I'm asleep? Because when I've tried, I've awoken myself in the half-ass throes of a scream that won't come out and ends up sounding more like a crackled moan, as if I've been crawling through the Sahara for days without water.

For this reason, what happened the other night baffles me to no end. While in a rare, deep, much needed sleep, I hear a faint whisper.  

"Cathy....Cathy..."

Now if anyone experiences this while asleep, they would no doubt wake up fully expecting to see the Blair Witch and her Project. This is exactly what happened to me. I awoke with such a freaked-out start, scaring myself even more by expelling the loudest, longest, most horrifying gasp I ever knew I was capable of making, while my arms formed continuous air circles out in front of me.

WHAT THE F@*$K????

I opened my eyes way wider than normal, frantically searching for the source of these eerie whispers. In full-on horror flick mode, I swear to you, I made out the figure of my older daughter Bella hovering over my bed clutching her pillow and Cuddles. But she was just standing there, not speaking a word.
"What. What?!!" I kept saying so as not to scream as my instincts were telling me to.
Bella is known for silently sneaking into our bedroom at night, standing by my side of the bed and whispering at me if she can't sleep/ feels sick/what have you. I thought this was one of those moments. But why would she call me Cathy?

With every blink of my crazed eyes, the outline of her figure was diminishing. My brain was desperately attempting to sort out the dream/reality/mirages of what it was being overloaded with within that one minute. Then I figured it out. I turned to Joe.

"Did you just say my name?"
"Yes," he replied flipping his ass towards me in exasperation.
"WHY?!"
"Because you were screaming in your sleep."
"What?!" I replied, again desperately asking myself if I was still dreaming, because, of course, I know that 'Hell, NO I don't scream in my sleep!'
"You were screaming," he insisted.
"No. I. Wasn't! What was I screaming?"
Then he says: "Honey...Honey..."
WTF? Was HE the one dreaming now?!?!?
"Is that what I was screaming out?" I had to verify before I diagnosed one of us as officially cray-cray.
"Yes." He clicked his teeth with his tongue in that annoying, freaking way, as he was now annoyed because I was asking him why the hell he whispered me awake like the Poltergeist to tell me that I was supposedly screaming in my sleep.

"Are you sure YOU weren't the one who was dreaming this? 'Cuz I never scream in my sleep. I can't even if I wanted to."
"No. Just go back to sleep."
"How the hell am I supposed to sleep NOW? I was sleeping sooooooo good..." I whined as I fluffed my pillow.


As I lay there, listening to my eyes break the silence with every blink, trying desperately to find that sweet slumber that has now cruelly escaped me, I gave some thought to the consequences of waking people out of their sleep. I concluded that we should all just let the snorers snore, the teeth grinders grind, the farters fart, the screamers scream, the walkers walk. After all, if they can't sense it, they're not doing it. It's just so much easier if we remove ourselves from the proverbial forest and pretend we didn't hear that tree fall.

In Memoriam

by Patti

I have a dead hamster in my freezer.

Remember Gus? Oh, Gus, may he rest in peace. Early last summer, Gus started acting strange. We'd find him oblong against the side of his cage, his furry little body gasping for air. Several times we thought "this was it"; that Gus had gone to run the big hamster wheel in the sky. But Gus stubbornly lingered. One day my mom came over, and she held vigil with us as we waited for the inevitable. Finally, knowing that S was not giving Gus the kind of attention he needed in this now frail state, especially now that we had Gaucho, I offered my mom the opportunity to take him into her own special brand of hospice. She at first declined. After all, she had adopted S's goldfish and her guinea pig, falling in love with each of them, only to find her self heartbroken at their respective demises. No way was she prepared to do this again. One hour later, she was headed home with a cage, a hamster wheel, and a dying hamster.

But Gus flourished. Under my mom's care, Gus's coat became once again shiny, he had a new pep in his tiny little steps, his precious, twitchy rodent hands once again eagerly foraged the seeds out of the mix my mom fed him every day. Gus was, to our collective amazement, miraculously on the mend, and it now seemed he would live forever. All through the summer he rallied, running that hamster wheel, delighting in the special freedoms my mom allowed him as she let him explore her bed while she cleaned out his cage.And so, we kind of forgot about the inevitable.

Then came the call. I was at Target buying snacks for S's sleepover. It had been a long work week, I felt a migraine coming on, and I was bracing for a tween scream fest as I threw packages of preservatives and red dye no. 4 into my cart.
"Hi, mom."
Sob. Sob. Sob.
"Mom, what's wrong?"
"I think Gus is dead!"
"Oh, no!"
"He's not moving! I was only gone for a couple of hours; he was fine before I left. I can't touch him. COME OVER."
"But... S is having a sleepover..."
"Please! This is more important!"

How could I say no? After all, she had taken Gus into hospice; she had given him life and joy for seven months. Gus had been ours for nearly two years before that. Wasn't his final resting place my ultimate responsibility? So I promised to be there as soon as possible, paid for enough junk to sufficiently poison S and her friends into comas later that night, and raced to my mom's. On the way there, I called S to explain that Gus had died, and she called my mother to promise her she and her friends would give him an appropriate funeral that night.

Once there, I approached the cage, and there was Gus - a furry lump. Ironically, he looked more plump and healthy than ever, except for that he was perfectly still and stiff and you know, not breathing?  As my mom sniffled in the background, I wrapped the plastic bag she had given me around my hand, and gingerly attempted to pick him up. Sufficiently freaked out, I may have accidentally flung him from my grip and back into the cage, inadvertently causing him to tumble into the fluff and onto his back, his stiff feet now skyward. Once again, I dipped my hand into the cage, and willed myself to muscle up and pick him up for CRYING OUT LOUD. After three mini-seizures, four screams, and five attempts that ended with hamster flinging, I finally managed to successfully transport Gus from his cage to the makeshift coffin my mom had made him: an empty check box now filled with fluff and a few of his favorite seeds.  We said a small goodbye, then closed the "coffin" with the lid, tied it with ribbon, wrapped it in a plastic bag, placed it in a shoebox, wrapped that in another plastic bag, and I headed home, a dead hamster in my passenger seat.

At home, I hosted a small "viewing" for S and her friends, then respectfully re-wrapped Gus back into his coffin, but not before, I'll admit, snapping a picture for memory's sake  Just as I was about to announce burial time, M reminded me that the ground was frozen solid and did we really think we'd be able to bury him? I could hear my mom's voice, "Please don't throw him away!", and my mind raced for solutions.

And that, my friends, is how I ended up with a dead hamster in my freezer. There he sits, among the Freschetta naturally rising pizza and Hot Pockets, patiently waiting for his proper send-off. You'll get your day, Gus - I promise.

R.I.P., Gus

We Walk the Line

by Cathy

“I’ll tell you a secret. Something they don’t teach you in your temple. 

The Gods envy us. They envy us because we’re mortal, because any moment might be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again.”- Achilles, Troy

Because we can all appreciate a visual when it comes to Brad Pitt as Achilles

I had the pleasure of seeing this film again recently, thanks to my daughters' school curriculum and their study of Greek Mythology and the Trojan War. So I watched it with my kids. Yes, I realize there is abundant violence and a smattering of nudity, which I explained as such: "Honey, everyone slept naked back then. Why? Because they didn't have pajamas." However, we were quickly drawn past those distractions and got to the heart of the great story behind it - the lessons, the sacrifices, human empathy in the face of fame and glory.

This quote from Achilles drove home for me a thought I've had for a long time: There is a very fine line between living and dying. Just one moment, one second, can change your life or take your life. I've always been cognizant of this, especially, as I've driven past cemeteries.

Safely from the confines of my car, I view this fence as the figurative line which we must all cross

We drive past these eerily silent resting places of people who were once as vibrant and full of life, hope and dreams as we are today, whizzing by with our music blaring, our voices singing, our kids laughing and our thoughts racing to what we get to do today. It's a fine metaphoric line and a fine figurative line - that fence which divides and defines. It's the fragility of luck that allows us to be on one side rather than the other, depending on how you see that proverbial glass of water.

I've come to realize that not only is there a fine line we walk between life and death, but in every other aspect of our lives we take for granted: a fine line between being healthy or sick; between having a job and losing it; between having a house and losing it; between having your loved ones and losing them; between landing an opportunity and just missing one that could potentially change your life.

We all walk these fine lines every day. If we keep ourselves in check about what we stand to lose in a given moment on a given day, yes, we will live in a sub-circle of fear, but one that is the sweetest of all fears. This is what Achilles was saying: We live with that notion that something can always be taken away, which makes everything more desperately real.

There is no joy to be had in something that you know you will always have and fittingly, take for granted. Included in this is our youth. Like many of you, I fret about getting old, day by day making out the lines on my face, the wrinkles around my eyes and the generally more haggard face that stares back at me in the mirror. Yet no matter how old we are, we are younger today than we will be tomorrow. I will try to keep this in mind myself, as vain thoughts will no doubt compete with my daily affirmations.

So, while this may appear as a gloom and doom message, interfering with the sparkling, promising new year we are in the throes of, it's cleverly disguised as a life affirming message. This message is part of my goals for the year: be positive, laugh, sing and dance more (preferably with my children), be more cognizant of those small moments with loved ones, live my life to the fullest my capabilities will allow and mostly, cherish it all.

Let's make the most of this life, like we're gonna die young. 

 

Every Breath You Take, I'll Be Feeding You

by Cathy

This holiday season, while most of you will be feasting on more food than you've probably had all year, just know that I will be a happy little elf. As you lament your weight gain and make concrete plans to visit gyms and health clubs, I will be relieved. Relieved...that you have eaten!

A few weekends ago, my daughters participated in their annual ballet performance of The Nutcracker. Months of practicing dwindled down to two major performances which came together quite nicely.

But little was I prepared for the six-hour tech rehearsal on the Friday night before the shows. SIX. HOURS. My kids would turn into otherworldly beasts.

Those of you who know me (or are Greek) know that I/we have an obsession with making sure our loved ones are fed. Apparently this is not only cultural but also inherited. Therefore, it would be fitting that I went into panic mode once I calculated that my kids would have a half-hour to eat after school, before they went to the six hour rehearsal-a-thon. I couldn't take the stress. "Six hours?! Oh my God I gotta roast a lamb for these kids!" I confided to Patti. She laughed it off but it wasn't so funny when we got there and saw another girl chowing down on a double entree of Chinese fried rice and chicken. See? I'm not the only one who stresses about their kids eating!

That night of the rehearsal and each day throughout both performances, I thought my kids would literally starve and pass out/throw a hunger tantrum/be unable to perform. Every. single. chance. I got, I would corner them.

"Did you eat?"
"EAT!"
"Do you want some carrots?"
"Where's your water?"
"Don't let everyone else eat your food, YOU need it!"
"EAT!"
"Where's your snack bag?"
"Here eat some of these."
"Have you eaten anything I packed you?"
"You haven't eaten a thing!"
"Have some pretzels!"
"What do you mean you don't want your sandwich!?! It's the only food you have!"
"Don't eat the chocolatey stuff now. Eat your food first and THEN have dessert!"
"Are you done? Have some more. You didn't eat enough!"

On and on this went as my friends sideways glanced and smirked at my Greekness. Meanwhile, they themselves were starving, texting husbands to drop off Subway sandwiches, making plans to go grab a bite before they too, turned into tantrum-throwing monsters. Of course, with all the backstage hullabaloo, they were unable to get away, but luckily? Luckily, being always over-prepared when it comes to having food on hand (you should see the trunk of my car), I had a Costco-sized bag of Chex Mix in my carry-on of a purse.

And I fed my people. And it was good.

So this holiday season and throughout all of 2013, I wish you the comforts of a full belly, the peace and tranquility of the still ocean, the happiness and wonderment of small children and most of all, health to enjoy it all.

Happy New Year!

Please Don't Stop the Music

by Cathy

How long has it been since you've been out dancing?

I'm not talking the kind of dancing where you're bobbing your head to the music while trying to converse loudly into someone's ear over cocktails in some frou-frou lounge or even the kind where you shake your booty while you're standing in place in an overcrowded bar. I'm talking about the kind of dancing where you abandon your inhibitions, feel the music pump through your veins, don't care who's watching, dance to every song played and flop down back into your seat in a sweaty, satisfied exhaustion. That kind of dancing.

For me? It's been a while. A looooooong while. It's not for lack of trying. In fact a couple of years ago around this time of year, Patti and I rounded up some girls and decided to go "clubbing" to get us into the holiday spirit. Sadly, the only eventful part of the night was when a girl, who had been desperately stalking and hovering over the DJ, was pointedly rejected by him and fell down in a slobbering mess of mascara and stiletto thigh-high boots. (Well, that and when we walked out to find our car had been booted.) Inside, the club was hardly hoppin'. We weren't really feeling the undanceable Top 40 dance mix hits being spun. We didn't have enough cash to spring for the $400 bottle service that seemingly, everyone else in da club had privilege to, which left us a tad too sober to really get into music we didn't feel in the first place.

Maybe it was the club. Maybe it was the uninterested DJ. Maybe it was because we weren't rolling in bank. But were we trying too hard to force it? Shouldn't we just feel it and let it happen organically? But in order for that to happen, don't we need to go out and put ourselves in those environments more often? Which, we haven't. Maybe we're too old. Maybe we don't need to do that anymore...or so we think.

Joe and I picked up the girls from school one day last week, and on our way up our back steps, Joe's cellphone rang. I call it his Cleopatra tune - a fluted symphony accompanied by the clicking of tinged castanets. The girls and I joked about his Egyptian ringtone as he attempted to take a business call. Outside our back door now and Joe officially off the phone and fidgeting with his keys, Bella announced, "Hey, you wanna hear my ringtone?"

A catchy, Halloweeny-type tune of beeps and drumbeats burst out of her phone through what Joe and I apparently thought were club speakers. Instantly and simultaneously, Joe and I started to "get down". Right there on our back deck, in full view for our neighbors to see and much to the horror of our children. And I mean, we were getting down. Our deck was transformed into a dim, strobe-lit dance floor. Bags were thrown to the ground, feet were being lifted off the ground, knees bending, arms flailing, hips flinging - while the girls sat frozen and the keys dangled off our back door. Bella was too stunned to stop the music - so we just kept dancing. A "woooooo!" even made its way out of my mouth. Oh yeah...we were feeling this.

Bella came to her senses and stopped the music with an, "Oh. My. God."
"Hey, put that back on!" I demanded, desoperately.
On it came again and Joe and I danced our way into the kitchen, laughing our beat-busting butts off.
As the tears of laughter subsided, I said, "How sad are we? We're getting down to a ringtone."
"What do you mean?" asked a laughing Joe, knowing damn well what I meant.
 "We've been so dance deprived that the slightest hint of drumbeats sets us off to boogeytown," I stated the obvious. "Dude, we were dancing to a ringtone."

Yes it was funny, but really, it was sad. And yes, it did happen organically but it also showed us how we really do enjoy this and gasp! even need it once in a while. The end of the world may come tomorrow, but we're not dead yet. So let's dance like there really is no tomorrow.

Christmas is coming, my ass is getting fat!

by Patti

Re-posting an old favorite by request. 

....................................................................................................

I'm being pelted by treats falling from the sky. It's not my fault.

It’s the Most! Wonderful! Time! Of the year! You know, that time when treats magically fall out of the sky and land in your mouth, over and over again? Especially if you work in an office environment, like I do. Suddenly people put on their Baker Extraordinaire hats and they are shoving brownies and snowman cookies and red and green sprinkled sugar bars down your throat. And you just sit there and take it like a man. A fat man.

Oh, no?

Well, THAT’S WHAT I’VE BEEN DOING.

They look innocent, but are evil, evil, evil.

This whole month of December has been an exercise in, well, not much exercise and WAAAAY too many chocolate reindeer balls. What is it about December that leads me to believe that it is okay to shove 13 cookies in my craw and that there won’t be any consequences as a result? I mean, it’s as if I am sugar-shocked into thinking that December Calories aren’t real.

But by the end of December, when I am slowly exiting my sugar fog and find I can’t zip up my pants, I realize: Ohhhh, they were real. And then I frantically make New Year’s Resolutions that include the gym and fat-free cottage cheese for the rest of ever.

Stop. The. Madness.

So today, right now, as I type this, I am swearing up and down that that 3^rd Styrofoam cup of cheese/caramel/regular popcorn I just ate as a “tide me over ‘til lunch” snack will be the last. I WILL NOT EAT ANYMORE POPCORN FROM FESTIVALLY DECORATED TINS.  I will also forego reindeer- shaped anything, and sparkly, sprinkly, sugary stuff that pretends to be snowmen, and Christmas tree brownies with adorable mini M&M’s as ornaments, and marshmallow-stuffed bars of gooey heaven, and pretty  much anything that isn’t grown from the ground or a tree.

And I swear I’ll do it as SOON as December ends.

Preoccpoopied

by Patti

When S was born, I was somewhat amazed by the level of poop that suddenly came into my life. Not only was I amazed by the level of poop, I was also amazed at how it didn't gross me out. Instead, I was actually fascinated by the many colors and consistencies, shapes and sizes. I was completely and totally preoccpoopied by poop.

Now? Those days are long gone. I am no longer fascinated by my kid's poop, as my kid is now 11 years old and her poop has lost its glow. I'm back to being disgusted by poop, in general, and I feel like that is 100% totally normal and expected and okay. Because let's face it: poop is disgusting. Which is why what I am about to tell you deserves a little warning. What? You say I should have warned you earlier? You say that it is too early to be discussing poop, and that poop should pretty much not ever be discussed, like, ever? Well, sorry - but if you come here, there's gonna be poop. Consider yourself warned.

Last week I was traveling for work and was waiting to board my fight in Indianapolis. First of all, I have to say: Indianoplis? You're cuter than I expected. And your airport is quite lovely. So, here I was at the airport, and I decided to hit the bathroom. The moment I entered, I was hit by a wall of poop. The smell was unbearable; it was as if somebody had taken a poop on the floor instead of in the toilet. Which made no sense because just a few hours before, I had been in that very bathroom on my way into Indy, and the bathroom was so clean and sparkly and fresh. So why the smell? That's when I saw this young girl, about 19 years old, on the floor with a baby, about 6 months old. The baby was as naked as if he had just been born right then and there, and the girl was trying to lay him on the hard, cold floor, as he wiggled furiously under her hands. She was surrounded by about 5,689 baby wipes, all used and crumpled up, and another 9,431 paper towels. I eyed her quietly as I washed my hands, and wondered why she was trying to change the baby on the floor instead of the changing table. That's when I noticed the changing table directly above her. It was COVERED in poop. It was a Picasso of poop. It was a poopsplosion of poop! It was - okay, okay, I'll stop.

It was clear there had been an accident of outstanding pooportions, and though every fiber of my being told me to RUN RUN out of the bacteria-infested bathroom, the mother's heart in me made me ask, "Do you need help?"
The girl looked up at me, her eyes wide. She was perspiring and red as she attempted to juggle her baby, the wipes, the diapers, the POOP. "My baby's got a tummy bug. I was changing him and it went everywhere. I feel so bad - it got on the changing table, all over the floor, all over...." she gestured around her desperately as her baby continued to wiggle wildly.

I immediately began to pull paper towels from the dispenser, wetting them with warm water, then handed them to her. "First, let's get your baby off the floor. Clean him with these and I'll take care of the changing table." She looked at me in disbelief, as if to say, Really? You're willing to touch my kid's POOP? Which. Yeah. I actually was.

As she wiped down her baby, I began the task of wiping down the changing table. She wasn't kidding. The kid had gone to town. That's right: he had painted the town brown. Amazingly, I didn't gag or even flinch. I simply got down to the business of doing what needed to be done. Several thousand paper towels and a bionic dosing of sanitzer later, I presented the clean table to her. "I can't believe you did this for me. THANK YOU SO MUCH!"
"I'm a mom, too," I told her, "I would hope that if I needed the help, somebody would offer it to me."

And then I washed my hands for about nine hours and left the bathroom, smiling. It really does take a village, I thought to myself. And a few thousand paper towels.

Mom, the Magic Fairy

by Cathy

The other night as the girls were getting ready for bed, placing stuffed animals just so, fluffing and propping up pillows, blowing their noses, sipping their water and finding their eye masks (you heard right), Bella verbally stumbled upon something pretty life-changing for her.

"Mommy, when you were out of town, there was no magical fairy that put my eye mask in its place or made my bed or hung my clothes."

"Yes, honey. That's what moms are," I came to realize for myself. "Magical fairies that flitter and flutter around the house taking care of all the little things."

We stealthily put out the million little fires before they become full blown blazes and we busily bustle about and invisibly handle the million little thoughtful conveniences that make everyone else's lives easier - like replacing rolls of toilet paper (remembering to buy the toilet paper), having the fridge stocked, making sure clothes are freshly washed and folded away, cleaning off desks so homework can be done and packing backpacks and lunches just to name a few.

"And," I continued, "because I do all of these little things for you, when I am not around, they can become bigger things and you learn to appreciate what I do for you. Riiiiight?"

""MmmmHmmm," she sighed as she hunkered down into the breezy mountain air sheets and comforters that the magical fairy washed for her.

She doesn't really get it. (And that's okay).

Just like I didn't get and appreciate everything my mom did for my sister and I until I moved out. And even moreso? When I had kids. Boy, have there been countless little moments - and big moments alike - when I think about my mom and what she went through, and why she said what she said the countless times she said it, and how she handled things and how she got through things with us, with herself, with the family.

My daughters don't realize it now because they are the wallflowers just watching the dance. But wait until they start dancing. After I got married, my mom would tell me, "Now that you're in the dance, you gotta keep on dancing." She might as well have said "Blue porcupines converse with aliens on rooftops" because I just didn't GET it then. Oh, but I do now.

So, I will be Mom, the Magic Fairy and I will keep on dancing, because it's my turn to do so. And until it's my kids' turn, if I can make the music seem a little less loud and let them enjoy sitting this one out, I will.

The Candyman CAN'T

by Patti

One night earlier this week, after peering for the 10th time into the refrigerator and exclaiming dramatically that there was nothing to eat, M suddenly decided that right then, that very second, at 8 p.m. on a weeknight, it was time to do the groceries. M is a pretty domestic guy. He irons his own pants, and even knows how to make those fancy creases; he does laundry; he gets the kid ready for school; he cooks a mean breakfast and simmers a fantastic stew. This is why it irritates me endlessly when he looks into the refrigerator, is able to summarize there is "nothing to eat", takes the actual initiative to go to the grocery store - but asks me to "write the list". For all his domesticity, he suffers the mysterious ailment known as "refrigerator blindness". Yes, he can SEE we have no food, but he can't seem to SEE just what might be missing. Odd.

So I, relieved to be relieved of having to schlep to the store, began to write things on a scrap of paper: apples, bananas, grapes, tomatoes, carrots, potatoes, eggs, milk, english muffins, granola bars. I then got bored of writing down the OBVIOUS and told him to please just figure out the rest. So, with my half-finished list in hand, out the door he went.

When he returned, laden with those annoyingly tiny plastic bags, I began to unpack the groceries. There were the apples, a measly three. Oh, look! Some carrots. A nice bag of plump grapes. Ah, lovely tomatoes. Bananas? No. But, here was some carrot cake. And rice pudding. And flan. And a tube of frozen sugar cookie dough. And a package of pre-cut chocolate chip cookie dough. And an industrial sized jug of hazelnut coffee creamer. And a giant box of chocolates that may have been Russian. Or Greek. Or Polish? And a can of "real" whipped cream. And a bag of gooey apple-cinnamon bread.

And just as I went into a sugar coma by sheer osmosis, I was somewhat saved by three tins of croissant dough. But not really. Because, where was the healthy stuff? My "list" was in one bag. The rest of the bags were filled with sugar and boxes of who knows what the hell because the labels were in RUSSIAN.
"What IS this?" I asked M.
"I don't know, but doesn't it look good?"
Apparently, M's grocery list is "sugar and stuff with cool pictures on it".

At least the picture had broccoli in it?

As I unpacked the "groceries", half laughing, half cursing, S jumped around me in glee, shouting out that her papi should always do the groceries. Then, apparently intoxicated by the sugar dust that now filled the air, she promptly made herself a bedtime snack: a waffle sandwich stuffed with Nutella, sprinkled with 1/2 cup of Ovaltine chocolate powder, and then topped off with the last banana left in our house.

And then, as my sugar beast daughter put her head together with her sugar beast papi to figure out how to bring the picture on the box to life, I put away the rest of the groceries, stuffing sugary treats into every crevice of the refrigerator, vowing to buy some celery.

I'll Stress Tonight, You Worry Tomorrow

by Cathy

I've always been jealous of the fact that my husband has been a good sleeper. And by this, I don't mean that he sleeps through the night without wailing himself awake because he's sick or has to go to the bathroom or he had a bad dream. That's covered by my kids on the occasional blue moon. What I mean is, no matter how bad a day he's had, no matter what happened right before he put his head down on that pillow, he instantly falls asleep. How many nights have I laid there next to him, exasperated, sighing loudly and cursing under my breath that he has the ability to do this? Countless.

For me, apparently, bedtime somehow translates into "Let's get this party started!" in my brain. That is when I think/stress about to-do lists, done lists, projects, bills, family, work and every other big thing that looms gargantuan, shadowing me in the still and dark of night to the point where I slide under my covers, squeeze my eyes shut and wish it away. So I toss and turn and get up to use the bathroom, check to make sure doors are locked, check on the kids, fluff my pillow countless times, put on some socks, take the socks off, nudge Joe to stop snoring (because honestly, is that really helping me here?!) turn the blinds totally shut in my room, and finally physically get pen and paper to jot down the eight million random thoughts that have found their way to me via Insomnia Road. All I need is confetti and a drink (which I've been very tempted to have depending on how long I've been stressing over stuff when I should be sleeping) and I can have myself a one-woman party!

I've always been aware, however, that Joe wakes up much earlier than I do. I always thought, for obvious reasons, that it was because he falls asleep much sooner than me and also, because when I met him, he boasted about how he likes getting up early enough to watch the sunrise and what a productive day you can have when you're an early riser! Yeah, yeah, blah, blah. I like to sleep in because when I finally DO fall asleep, I wanna milk that cow for all it's worth. Plus, watching the sunset isn't a shabby second option.

So I was amazed when I recently discovered that he gets up thinking about work and "stuff". He wakes up worried which is just as bad as going to sleep stressed. Was I a little relieved and, dare I say, secretly happy that I wasn't the only one stressing over things, making mountains out of mountains? I would lie if I said I wasn't. It's sadly comforting to know that he worries and stresses about everything I do. It makes me feel not-so-neurotic and strangely, that we are on the same page with things. His mind just jumpstarts the process at a different time of day.

Now that we know how each is hardwired, we will continue to share the burden of our stress while we attempt to put out these monstrous, sleep-stealing fires and work on preventing others from starting. We will take shifts and bear the weight of our worries on each of our respective shoulders, as the other revels in sweet, much-needed slumber. After all, we would be useless zombies if we were both on the same stress schedule. Funny how nature works, eh? But for us, this works. And that stress-sharing accommodation? That's just part of what marriage is all about.