Oct
13
The consistent character flaw
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We continue to have sleep problems with Dylan, and I’m finding it really difficult to nail down exactly what’s going on because they’re ever-changing in nature. First he was resisting bedtime altogether, then he was sick, then he was fine but waking up because of an intermittent cough, then he was resisting naps, then he was waking up at 5 AM, then it was 3 AM, then there was this miraculous night when he slept just fine and because I am indescribably stupid and constantly believe whatever stage we’re in at this exact moment in time is what it’s going to be like FOREVER I was all, yayyyyy, sleeping problems fixed! And now for the last few nights he’s been waking up at 1 or 2 AM, completely wide-awake and cheery and ready to have a lengthy, spirited discussion about donkeys.
Basically this child is like a round-bellied, pudge-knuckled virus who continually mutates in order to more efficiently fuck with its host.
We all seem to be getting enough rest somehow, but man, I have to say I do not enjoy a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed toddler in the wee hours of the night normally devoted to REM cycles. A sleepy, just-needs-a-little-comfort warm ball of koala-clinginess is one thing, but a double-espresso Chatty McDonkeytalk is something else entirely. Last night I rocked him, sang to him, gave him milk, and eventually—judge me if you must—drugged his tiny ass with Benadryl in a frustrating two-hour stretch from 1-3 AM, while all the while JB issued forth great peaceful blubbery snores until I slid back into bed and “accidentally” kicked him, hard, in the meat of his upper thigh.
I’ve noticed that the person who gets up tends to run out of patience with the blatting child far before the person who obliviously sleeps through it all. Funny how that works, right? I was lying there staring at the ceiling mumbling, “What the fuck is his problem? Why won’t he sleep?” and JB yawned and theorized that maybe Dylan was just a little thirsty and didn’t know how to say so, at which point I exploded in a series of hisses.
“What do you mean, can’t say so? Have you not heard this child ask for milk? HE KNOWS HOW TO ASK FOR MILK. HE ASKS FOR MILK ALL THE TIME. It sounds like this: BABA? MILK? BABA? MILK? It’s the thing he likes to repeat the entire time you’re pouring the milk in the cup just to drive the point into your throbbing skull, IS THIS RINGING A BELL. And by the way I already gave him some goddamned milk while you were lying there sawing logs like a tranq-darted grizzly bear, motherfucker.”
(I will grudgingly acknowledge that I am not necessarily at my personal best at 3 AM.)
Now that we seem to have passed the very worst of the All Tantrums, All the Time stage, there is so much about Dylan that is deeply, almost painfully enjoyable right now. His tiny helium voice, his openmouthed excitement, his desire to be held and cuddled, his bustling rear end as he runs from one distraction to another. His mad dance skills. His love for reading along with Mouse Mess. His rosebud mouth and delicious soft cheeks.
It’s enough to make a person entirely resistant to the notion of him ever getting even one single day older, except for the faint and necessary hope that someday, just someday, he’ll start sleeping through the fucking night. Or at least be old enough to fasten to the bed with canvas restraints and a nice sturdy ball gag.
Oct
11
Lessons from the undead
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I had that triathlon in my mind for what seemed like so long, once it was over with I actually felt a little empty without having some big intimidating goal to work towards. It made me start thinking about what other sorts of things I could accomplish, which is probably the very best reason to do something that scares the shit out of you.
There are some maybe-silly, maybe-awesome things I want to do in the next year—things I’ve always just assumed I can’t do, or that I’ve been too freaked out to try. Like climbing that big-assed rock wall at the REI store, skating with a roller derby practice group, and taking part in a writing group. Also on my list: learn the Thriller dance. Because, well, everything about the Thriller dance is made of awesome. I didn’t know how, but I knew I wanted to do it.
A few days ago I stumbled onto a page seemingly custom-designed to make my dreams come TRUE. How could I pass this up? Sure, I can’t dance and I’m socially anxious and oh yeah, I can’t dance, but what the hell, right? I shanghaied Ashley into agreeing to do it with me, and all week I’ve been getting progressively more worried about the big group rehearsal. I watched some how-to videos which just made me more nervous: that routine is hard, man. I sort of thought the zombies just staggered around and rarrrr’d in unison with a few jazz hands or something, but no, there’s actual choreography in there.
What if I tripped and fell? What if I was facing one way while everyone else was facing the other way? What if I couldn’t do any of the moves at ALL and I had to just go and sit in the corner and burn with shame?
Do I even have to tell you that none of those things happened and it was actually incredibly fun and I had a fantastic, sweaty, successful time?
The SCARE! maneuver, which involves being scary.
The signature Thriller move, the ROAR!
On Saturday, October 24, Ashley and I are going to take part in the Thrill the World event and dance the Thriller routine in full costume and makeup in downtown Seattle. It sounds like something that anyone would do for fun and not a big deal at all, right? But it kind of is, for me. It’s about actively chasing down goals and going outside of my comfort zone and just, I don’t know, not being so stifled by my own self-imposed limitations.
Yes, I really did just get all introspective and shit over a bunch of dancing zombies. So much in life is about zombies, really.
Anyway, if you need further proof that learning a choreographed dance routine is in fact a really, REALLY big challenge for me, here you go:
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