Surreality, 6 AM Edition
Hellooo! I am awake, o yes I am! I would be awake by now, anyway, but I was first wakened in darkness by the Mermaid Girl who came in and lay down and said, "I think my head hurts, and my stomach hurts."
"Um," I said. "Maybe that's because it's, uh, 3:30 in the morning, bunny."
"Oh!" she said. "Never mind! Okay! Go back to sleep!" And she went away and I did.
I next awoke in darkness to the sound of someone talking in the other room, and a strange vibrant clinking ringing sound, like a glass harmonica. Or maybe two glass harmonicas bumping into each other.
MG was sitting bolt upright in the middle of her room with the light blazing bright, listening to Shannon Hale's Princess Academy on CD. The weird glass harmonica sound was coming from her ceramic tea set, which she had laid out on the floor. It was 6:00 in the morning.
"Look!" she said, climbing into the laundry hamper. "Turn off the light!" I obeyed. Blurry stars shone down on me from the ceiling. (I wasn't wearing my glasses.)
"Oh, honey, that's gorgeous," I said.
"Mama gave them to me," she said. "It was from a really old sheet. She said they probably wouldn't even work any more, but they DO. And some silly putty."
"Uh...sweetie? Do you think maybe you should lie down and try to rest for a while?"
"I can't, I have to CLEAN MY ROOM," she said. "I TRIED to sleep. But I can't. So now I'm cleaning my room."
"Oh." I said. Who am I to tell a kid to stop cleaning her room? Though frankly, it looked if anything more cluttered than last time I'd been in there. "Um. Okay." Still kind of dazed, I slumped down to the floor and picked up one of the many Dear America books that her grandmother gave her a couple of years ago. "Um, maybe you could read for a little? Here, you could read this book about a factory worker."
"No, Mommy," she said kindly. "Um, Mommy? You don't have to stay." Which is what she says when she is feeling diplomatic and wants us to GET OUT.
"Oh. Uh, okay."
"Mommy?"
"Uh huh?"
"Could you turn the light out on your way out? I'll turn it back on when I need it."
"Um, okay." And I turned out the light and stumbled back to bed, leaving her in the laundry hamper looking up at the stars on her ceiling.
So I listened to a podcast and tried to tune out the Princess Academy filtering through the heating vent, but no go. And now it is light and time for us to get up for real and go to synagogue, where we will, respectively, attend and teach religious school. Then she will go straight from there to a gymnastics birthday party all the way across town.
Anyone want to take bets on the likelihood of:
a) us making it to shul on time,
b) MG's room being cleaned for real by her deadline tonight, and/or
c) One or both of us having a total and utter meltdown by sunset ?
"Um," I said. "Maybe that's because it's, uh, 3:30 in the morning, bunny."
"Oh!" she said. "Never mind! Okay! Go back to sleep!" And she went away and I did.
I next awoke in darkness to the sound of someone talking in the other room, and a strange vibrant clinking ringing sound, like a glass harmonica. Or maybe two glass harmonicas bumping into each other.
MG was sitting bolt upright in the middle of her room with the light blazing bright, listening to Shannon Hale's Princess Academy on CD. The weird glass harmonica sound was coming from her ceramic tea set, which she had laid out on the floor. It was 6:00 in the morning.
"Look!" she said, climbing into the laundry hamper. "Turn off the light!" I obeyed. Blurry stars shone down on me from the ceiling. (I wasn't wearing my glasses.)
"Oh, honey, that's gorgeous," I said.
"Mama gave them to me," she said. "It was from a really old sheet. She said they probably wouldn't even work any more, but they DO. And some silly putty."
"Uh...sweetie? Do you think maybe you should lie down and try to rest for a while?"
"I can't, I have to CLEAN MY ROOM," she said. "I TRIED to sleep. But I can't. So now I'm cleaning my room."
"Oh." I said. Who am I to tell a kid to stop cleaning her room? Though frankly, it looked if anything more cluttered than last time I'd been in there. "Um. Okay." Still kind of dazed, I slumped down to the floor and picked up one of the many Dear America books that her grandmother gave her a couple of years ago. "Um, maybe you could read for a little? Here, you could read this book about a factory worker."
"No, Mommy," she said kindly. "Um, Mommy? You don't have to stay." Which is what she says when she is feeling diplomatic and wants us to GET OUT.
"Oh. Uh, okay."
"Mommy?"
"Uh huh?"
"Could you turn the light out on your way out? I'll turn it back on when I need it."
"Um, okay." And I turned out the light and stumbled back to bed, leaving her in the laundry hamper looking up at the stars on her ceiling.
So I listened to a podcast and tried to tune out the Princess Academy filtering through the heating vent, but no go. And now it is light and time for us to get up for real and go to synagogue, where we will, respectively, attend and teach religious school. Then she will go straight from there to a gymnastics birthday party all the way across town.
Anyone want to take bets on the likelihood of:
a) us making it to shul on time,
b) MG's room being cleaned for real by her deadline tonight, and/or
c) One or both of us having a total and utter meltdown by sunset ?
posted by elswhere | 8:21 AM
1 Comments:
And the answers are:
a) yes
b) no, and
c) miraculously, no. Though she did fall asleep in the car on the way back from the party.
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