Sleep tight...

I've shared a glance into mornings at my house...now let's talk about the nights. The nights of this past week in particular. Why this week you ask? Well, simply because it was this past week that my family was hit by a plague, making nights all the more interesting.

Ok, ok, "plague" is a teeny bit dramatic. We have been bombarded by a UTI, a breast infection, ramdom spiking fevers, raging gastritis, upper respiratory infections, diarrhea, and finally pneumonia. Now that I list it all, maybe 'plague' was fair.

Now, this litany of ailments is a bit bizzare for my family, who are normally quite healthy (ramdom otherwise-unheard-of-ailments notwithstanding). But this past week, life has changed - and the nightlife in particular.

I admit, I have been known to see 2am on more than one occasion by my own volition, but those days have passed. I now find myself trembling with anticipation at the very thought of crawling into my bed and slumbering in blissful unconsciousness for as many hours as possible. My very perky morning children are also very cantankerous little creatures when their ailments interrupt their sleep. Where are the little urchins who solicitously creep into their parents bedrooms softy whispering requests for aid or comfort?? I've got three little Banshees screaming blue murder from their room, jolting me from my bed and sending me flailing through the darkness to battle whatever evil that is attacking my child.

They often want juice.

I prepare for these nights much like an army medic prepares for battle. I begin by securing the scene. I methodically check the temperature, humidity, lighting, and availability of blankets and pillows of all three kids. I then prepare myself physically and mentally. While going through my bedtime ritual, I consider possible complications and contingency plans for the next 12 hours. If my husband is out of town, these plans become considerably more elaborate to the point where I have been known to steal gas from the lawn mower to make sure my van has enough fuel to get a sick kid to the hospital. (there's a sight at 11pm - me in my jammies funnelling gas into my Honda).

I then procure the necessary supplies for the evening- essentially stocking my "kit". I often find it necessary to use a plastic container to transport it all to my nightstand. I need a light, water, juice (for when water is refused), Kleenex, diapers, nose spray, ResQRemedy, Camilla, honey cough syrup, gas drops, a syringe, and a shot of crystal meth to keep me up long enough to apply all these treatments (Ok...I'm exaggerating again).

I stock extra pillows within reaching distance of the bed so I can simply slide over and make a new spot when bodies are added. I put on an extra undershirt. I place a pair of socks at my bedside so I don't have to walk on the cold floor, and a sweatshirt at the foot of my bed so I don't freeze to death if I'm out of the bed for more than 30 seconds. Rumour has it my circulation isn't great when I'm comatose.

I plug in a baby monitor so I can hear if one of them flutters an eyelash, and then make another round through the house making sure everything is ready for whatever the night throws at us. Is my cell phone charged? Is the stereo turned off so the house won't burn down? Could I find a bra before the paramedics got here? Is the cordless by my bed? Should I wake the snoring child to spray his/her nose or should I wait till he/she starts screaming (typically within 10 minutes of me falling asleep)?

This all might seem a bit excessive, but I desperately yearn to sleep, and my sick children are known to gang up on me in the wee hours. Preparation is my best defense.

My husband has his own nighttime ritual. He will rise from the couch, grunting something that vaguely sounds like "bed" and stumble into the bathroom. Before another nanosecond of time has passed, he is unconscious in our bed, teeth brushed, clothes strewn, often snoring loudly. If I interrupt his well-deserved respite when I crawl into bed, he might offer this sentiment "I sure hope the kids sleep tonight - I'm beat".

Hat's Off

I don't look good in a hat. Any kind of hat. Those made for fashion, function, or to hide a bad hair day - none of these were designed for my cranium. I have come close to losing my ears rather than succumb to the abysmal sight of my head in a stocking cap (or toque for the Northerners). I've analyzed this condition, and pondered the cause of my shocking descend into unsightliness when hats are involved.

I've believe I have cracked the case. My face is desperately out of proportion. As a result, I need the top half of my rather sizable melon unobscured to balance things out.

When you view my entire head at one glance, it is not particularly displeasing. Children do not cry at the sight of me; I've never been asked to wear a bag before entering a restaurant to protect other diners.
But if I don a hat - all bets are off.

It would seem that all these years, I've been blaming my head, when indeed it is my face that causes the quandary. It's always the obvious things we miss, isn't it?

I've always known my nose was a problem - too big, too wide, very squishy - rather a bizarre feature really. But as I have aged, I have quit sticking my face in front of slap shots in a effort to force the plastic surgery issue and decided that I can live with the nose God gave me.

The rest of my facial abnormalities have been gradually pointed out to me by various professionals. Let me share a few of their educated observations.

My hairstylist, when discussing style options with me, nodded solemnly and said "yes, with that forehead, you have to be really careful about the style you choose - covering that has to be a priority...of course, you don't want to bring too much hair on your face cause it will puff out your cheeks even more." Heartwarming.

My optometrist- not normally someone I look to for beauty critique- explained to me that because my eyes protrude so significantly out of my head that I will likely have no end of trouble with dry eye etc. It is very possible that I will see a day when my eyelids will no longer close over my "significantly protruding" eyeballs. The end result of my journey into bug-eyes, is exactly that - I will sleep like a bug - with my eyes partly open. Something to look forward to. That appointment was a real picker-upper. Can't wait till next year.

Then there was the facialist who told me that my skin, while not the worst she has ever seen, was critical, but salvageable. But time is of the essence. I must begin laser treatments and glycolic peels if I have any hope of reclaiming some sliver of beauty. She seemed a little dubious as to the likelihood of my skin ever being ravishing.
I just wanted to give her a hug.

The kicker might have been my last visit to the dentist. My dentist is a 60+ year old man who has cheated death more than once in his lifetime. He is a family friend, and has been known to call me pumpkin and rub my hair when I start freaking out in the dental chair. My last appointment started well - the scraping and cleaning was relatively painless, and then in walks Dr. Pauly.

He takes one look at my mouth and says, "so when are you going to let me replace your missing tooth?"
Hold your horses now- we are not talking about one of my front teeth, but rather an upper molar that was pulled 13 years ago after it abscessed. I have not missed this tooth.
I asked him -why?? He said "cause you can see it when you smile. Your teeth are small, and your gums are big, and everyone can see the hole in your teeth -you look like you are from Green Island". (I won't explain Green Island - just know it's NOT a compliment).

I told him I doubted I would ever let him hose me for a bridge, but I did want to ask him what I could do about getting my teeth to look whiter. He glanced at them again, and said "bleach them; they should be at least a few shades whiter - even if they do have a hole".
Again, I left with a warm fuzzy feeling.

Despite all the professional criticism, I am going to keep my face. If I'm spending money on any body parts (which I am not), I am starting at my chest and there will be no stopping until they hit my rapidly wearing knees. I figure as long as I can grow hair that can be chemically enhanced to offer another focal point on my head, I'm going to be just fine.

And if I really, really, have to wear a hat.....I'll just buy a ski mask!