Not that I’ve really slept well since I had my first baby, but I do (dimly) remember sleeping through the night occasionally. Or at least, if I woke up, going back to sleep resonably soon thereafter.
Not these days.
These days, I count three hours of straight sleep as good, five hours as miraculous. We won’t talk about what last night was like. Although I was actually asleep, sometime after midnight, when the soft voice of #3 woke me (us) up.
“I just noticed the back gates are open and the dog got out. He’s gone.”
Not that dog and gone are necessarily a bad combination, but I’d kinda hoped for a more definite plan than he got out. But I was soooo tired, and the kid was looking, and there wasn’t anything I could do, anyway (and at least the pooch was embarking on the next leg of his journey with a full tummy and a clean coat), so I went back to sleep.
Until 2:30. Got up. Went outside. No dog. Scarfed down a container of yogurt, got on the computer for a few minutes until the sandman returned, went back to bed.
And there I lay until nearly 6, awake.
At eight, I irritably mumbled “Kid’s lunch money’s in my wallet” to my husband and turned back over, only to realize, nope, too late, I’m up.
#5 yells from bottom of the stairs, “The dog got out last night because the gates were left open!”
“Yeah, honey, I know–”
“But he’s back!”
I sway slightly on the top step, grasping the rail to keep from toppling over. Um, the gate was closed when I checked at 2:3o. . . What the. . .?
Wait!!! THIS JUST IN!
#4 just stuck his head in my door. Said he found the dog at 4:45 when he was driving home, standing in the middle of the street at the end of our block. He (the kid) called his name and the dog, in his words, booked it back here.
No wonder he (the dog) is still sacked out.
Would that I was, as well.
