A Mommy Blog About Raising Men, Not Boys.

Monday, January 18, 2016

At Least There Are No Wampas

I've had a steaming hot, soapy shower and three cups of coffee. My intention today has been to shake off the stress and strife of yesterday and last night.

I'm medicated you see.

Round two of prednisone is being no kinder to my personality than round 1. I can't help it. I go from fine to rage, happy to despondent in moments. I'm also on a cough syrup that's got phenergan in it and that's making me sleepy, dopey and sad. All in all, it's a pretty terrible combination of drug induced feelings. That being said - I can breathe.

I can inhale. I can COUGH. I can exhale without feeling like two wet heavy sponges have replaced my lungs. If my lungs were any measure of my health - I'd say I'm better. But I can't tell that I'm better because I am so fucking medicated. Levaquin, my current antibiotic on deck (having replaced azythromycin which didn't make the grade) is wreaking havoc on my internal workings in a socially unacceptable way.

But I'm tired. I didn't even take the cough syrup because I don't want to be dopey and drive.

Last night I fell into a lovely, deep medicated sleep as my husband made one of his unfortunately necessary late night runs to the store. All the children were in bed, and I drifted off, letting the phenergan take me into dreamless sleep when sounds of the twins fighting woke me up about 20 or 30 minutes later. After that point I was up and down repeatedly, getting water, refereeing and then finally moving Miles into bed with Julia and I.

There were three in the bed and the little one said, roll over...roll over...

And then I couldn't sleep.

I slept on and off, I heard my husband come home, I heard him doing the dishes and I could hear music sometimes. Miles finally stirred and I whispered "Go to bed now" and he got up and wandered back to his bunk without argument. Then I slept.

My husband came to bed and talked to me for a bit. I don't know about what, I hope it wasn't important.I rolled over and looked at the clock - 5:58. So here I am.

I extracted myself from the arms and legs of a five year old, made coffee, showered and am considering exiting the house with wet hair like it's the 80s again. I'm not so tired as I am fatigued. I'm tired of inactivity. I'm tired of feeling this way. I want to do like 60000 things but instead I need to rest.

It's boring as hell.

But, I'll take my happy thought from my Star Wars weather forecast for the day - at least there are no Wampas.