Some days it just doesn't pay to even try to go to bed.
Last night was one of those loooong, never-ending nights. First of all, it is not good for me to watch episodes of "The Walking Dead" and "Dexter" before I try to sleep. Not good at all. I'm not a scaredy-cat or a weenie, but the tension in these shows makes it darn near impossible for me to shut off my brain. So, yeah, bad choice on my part. Well, OK, I wouldn't have even watched the zombies if it wasn't for the horror-lovin' man I married, so that one is his fault.
And then there was the thunderstorm. Yep, you read correctly. A thunderstorm on November 21. In Iowa. Sigh... Ever since we moved out into the country, Tess has developed a fear of storms. I don't know if it's because they're louder or brighter or windier, but she'll lay at the bottom of the steps whining. If someone doesn't respond to her, she escalates to moaning. Then to yipping. And, finally, to barking. Which is the point that I fly out of bed, cursing and grumbling down the stairs to sleep on the couch.
Normally, this would be where the story would end -- with me sleeping the rest of the night on the couch, trading a c-pap wearing hubby for snoring, farting dogs. Normally.
But not last night. Nope. At 3 a.m. my darling princess starts crying in her sleep. I gave her a moment or two to see if she would settle, but she didn't. That meant I also gave daddy a moment or two to wake up and realize what was going on, which, thanks to Mr. Ambien, he did not. So I stumbled back up the stairs to comfort her and help her not tip into the toilet when she fell back asleep going potty. Daddy and I met each other at her bedroom door, him looking confused and me looking like one of The Walking Dead.
No more thunder (or so I thought) and I go back to sleep in my bed. Again, thanks to Mr. Ambien, daddy is out in mere seconds while I try to position the pillows around the rapidly growing belly for minimum discomfort. I drift off to sleep...
Until 4:45 a.m. when a second round of storms go through and I end up stumbling BACK down the steps to quiet the dog before she wakes the rest of the house. I conk out on the couch when click! the table lamp on the timer clicks on to start the day. Only it's an hour early because I have forgotten to reset the time with the conclusion of Daylight Savings Time.
I.
give.
up.
Uncle! Uncle! Uncle!
Showing posts with label sleep apnea. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sleep apnea. Show all posts
Monday, November 22, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
No Coffee!?!
My coffee maker has died. I have mourned her death daily for the last, but never more than I did this morning.
There were some pretty noisy storms that swept through the area last night, loud rumbling thunder rattling my windows and vivid lightning darting across the sky. My children slept through this symphony. One of my dogs slept, too. And the other?
Oh heck-to-the-NO. My chubby Tess was uncharacteristically spooked by the storms, barking repeatedly from downstairs as she pawed at the baby gate at the bottom of the steps. She barks, then pauses for five seconds to listen for someone (me) to rouse upstairs, then barks again -- just one bark every five seconds like an alarm clock. She did this last night at midnight. Two A.M. Two-thirty A.M. and at 3 A.M.
Up until last night, we had been sleeping comfortably dog-less upstairs because the dogs are typically restless sleepers, panting, groaning, snoring, actively dreaming, and, most offensively, farting all night long. When we moved in November, they were both hesitant to climb the uncarpeted stairs, afraid of sliding all the way down if they slipped. I was really OK with this. In December, Mocha had decided she was tired of living downstairs and came up during the kids' bath. But overnight, she didn't bother coming upstairs because we'd closed all of the bedroom doors. Or at least, I never noticed her coming upstairs. She's sooo refined, as long as you exclude her frozen poop addiction.
This spring, Tess decided to overcome her fear of the stairs and has joined us upstairs at odd times, normally startling us because we don't expect her to lug her generous weight up the steps. So we put up a baby gate at the bottom of the steps because she is not nearly as polite as Mocha -- she will whine and paw and bark to get into a room with a closed door. This was what she did last night -- rammed into my door like a freight train, startling the snot out of me, jolting me wide awake at 3 A.M. Hey, 130 pounds of Lab makes a LOUD noise.
Frustrated and exhausted, I did what every parent who is tired of comforting a non-sleeping child does -- let her into the room. And begged her to sleep quietly and not fart, oh please, oh please, oh please...
Sleep training an old dog new tricks sucks. And it sucks even more when you don't have any coffee...
There were some pretty noisy storms that swept through the area last night, loud rumbling thunder rattling my windows and vivid lightning darting across the sky. My children slept through this symphony. One of my dogs slept, too. And the other?
Oh heck-to-the-NO. My chubby Tess was uncharacteristically spooked by the storms, barking repeatedly from downstairs as she pawed at the baby gate at the bottom of the steps. She barks, then pauses for five seconds to listen for someone (me) to rouse upstairs, then barks again -- just one bark every five seconds like an alarm clock. She did this last night at midnight. Two A.M. Two-thirty A.M. and at 3 A.M.
Up until last night, we had been sleeping comfortably dog-less upstairs because the dogs are typically restless sleepers, panting, groaning, snoring, actively dreaming, and, most offensively, farting all night long. When we moved in November, they were both hesitant to climb the uncarpeted stairs, afraid of sliding all the way down if they slipped. I was really OK with this. In December, Mocha had decided she was tired of living downstairs and came up during the kids' bath. But overnight, she didn't bother coming upstairs because we'd closed all of the bedroom doors. Or at least, I never noticed her coming upstairs. She's sooo refined, as long as you exclude her frozen poop addiction.
This spring, Tess decided to overcome her fear of the stairs and has joined us upstairs at odd times, normally startling us because we don't expect her to lug her generous weight up the steps. So we put up a baby gate at the bottom of the steps because she is not nearly as polite as Mocha -- she will whine and paw and bark to get into a room with a closed door. This was what she did last night -- rammed into my door like a freight train, startling the snot out of me, jolting me wide awake at 3 A.M. Hey, 130 pounds of Lab makes a LOUD noise.
Frustrated and exhausted, I did what every parent who is tired of comforting a non-sleeping child does -- let her into the room. And begged her to sleep quietly and not fart, oh please, oh please, oh please...
Sleep training an old dog new tricks sucks. And it sucks even more when you don't have any coffee...
Friday, May 7, 2010
To Sleep, Perchance to Dream...
In the time shortly before my alarm went off, I took a most unusual journey in the land of nod.
I dreamt that I was out shopping with the kids, who were mostly behaving. Our final stop was a certain chain store known for selling bedroom and bathroom accessories and beyond, too -- just how does a store sell beyond?
In my dream, the kids were trailing behind my me as I pushed a cart through the aisles, craning my neck to see the merchandise waaaay up there -- I guess I didn't have binoculars handy. The store seemed endless, but as we approached the corner where the bedding was on display, I was completely overcome by sleepiness.
My feet were dragging and I was leaning on the cart. I stumbled to the nearest display, one of those with a partial bed set up so you can see how the sheets, comforters and ridiculously expensive pillows coordinate. Of course, you can't really tell exactly how that stuff is going to look in your home, unless your home is a big box store with fluorescent lighting and a gleaming white floor.
I zombied right up to the display, lifted the coverlet, and crawled in. Yes, in my dream I took a nap in a busy store with my children skipping all around me. My dream nap lasted about an hour, at which point I startled myself awake (in the dream) and gasped, "Where are my children?"
I started calling and each child appeared from a different aisle completely unharmed. They looked happy to see me and were ready to go home. I slid out of the bed (display) and took them each by a hand, asking Milo, "Did mommy fall asleep?"
"Yes. But we stayed close by. The other kids played tag with us and the man-ja-jer (manager) said not to wake you."
I looked around to discover that I wasn't the only mommy to snooze in a display -- the other three beds were occupied by slumbering mothers whose children were left to fend for themselves in the store, apparently playing tag with my babes. I sheepishly herded the kids out the door, slinking by the smiling manager, a grandmotherly woman who wished me, "I hope you had a great nap!"
When I woke this morning (for real, no pinching necessary), I was so shocked by my dream behavior. Am I seriously so tired that I dream about sleeping? Who dreams that they abandon their children in a store, neglecting their very safety for a nap? Did I eat bad pizza last night? How many licks DOES it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop?
The world will never know...
I dreamt that I was out shopping with the kids, who were mostly behaving. Our final stop was a certain chain store known for selling bedroom and bathroom accessories and beyond, too -- just how does a store sell beyond?
In my dream, the kids were trailing behind my me as I pushed a cart through the aisles, craning my neck to see the merchandise waaaay up there -- I guess I didn't have binoculars handy. The store seemed endless, but as we approached the corner where the bedding was on display, I was completely overcome by sleepiness.
My feet were dragging and I was leaning on the cart. I stumbled to the nearest display, one of those with a partial bed set up so you can see how the sheets, comforters and ridiculously expensive pillows coordinate. Of course, you can't really tell exactly how that stuff is going to look in your home, unless your home is a big box store with fluorescent lighting and a gleaming white floor.
I zombied right up to the display, lifted the coverlet, and crawled in. Yes, in my dream I took a nap in a busy store with my children skipping all around me. My dream nap lasted about an hour, at which point I startled myself awake (in the dream) and gasped, "Where are my children?"
I started calling and each child appeared from a different aisle completely unharmed. They looked happy to see me and were ready to go home. I slid out of the bed (display) and took them each by a hand, asking Milo, "Did mommy fall asleep?"
"Yes. But we stayed close by. The other kids played tag with us and the man-ja-jer (manager) said not to wake you."
I looked around to discover that I wasn't the only mommy to snooze in a display -- the other three beds were occupied by slumbering mothers whose children were left to fend for themselves in the store, apparently playing tag with my babes. I sheepishly herded the kids out the door, slinking by the smiling manager, a grandmotherly woman who wished me, "I hope you had a great nap!"
When I woke this morning (for real, no pinching necessary), I was so shocked by my dream behavior. Am I seriously so tired that I dream about sleeping? Who dreams that they abandon their children in a store, neglecting their very safety for a nap? Did I eat bad pizza last night? How many licks DOES it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop?
The world will never know...
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Malfunctioning Bedroom Devices
No, this is not an X-Rated post, so if you're looking for that, please look elsewhere...
The last two nights have been, shall we say, interesting in the ol' master bedroom. First of all, my husband sleeps with a bi-pap machine because he has crazy sleep apnea. We, well, I discovered the apnea when I would wake at night to nurse a newborn Violet. I would snuggle down in the chair and listen to Scott's very loud rhythmic snoring. As I became more attuned to the music he made, I started hearing decrescendos in his snoring -- as in I could hear as his airway closed and his snoring would sound pinched, getting quieter and quieter until there was silence. During the silence I would chuck whatever handy object was near me at him, hoping to jostle him into breathing again. He would resume breathing with a snort and start right back in with the snoring. One morning, after he woke to find four half empty water bottles, two bath towels and a book in the bed, he decided to call the doctor and arrange a sleep study, after which he was prescribed the bi-pap.
Now, I realize that I have little to complain about the Darth Vader sleeping next to me, but the bi-pap will shoot cold air at me if he's facing me, something which inevitably wakes me with a start. The machine is keeping him from suffering the apnea, and therefore, it is ensuring that he will wake the next day. But still, it's a bit of an inconvenience -- I can't kiss his face when he's sleeping, he can't wake me gently with kisses on my shoulders, and he has to sleep with hurricane-force winds bombarding his face all night long.
At least most nights. Some nights, he removes the mask due to discomfort. When he does, he turns off the machine and hangs his mask over the headboard. The moment when he removes his mask is accompanied by a very loud whoosh (read: jet engine turbine) unless he turns the machine off before removing the mask. Which he usually does.
Usually.
Sunday night, however, he only managed to get the mask off his face. He didn't remember to turn the machine off, he didn't remember to hang his mask -- in fact, it was tucked into the crook of his arm, whooshing away. For an hour. For an hour in which I was roused several times by the noise. For an hour during which I poked him, trying to wake him after the several times I was awakened. For an hour, which concluded in me shoving him with both of my hands until he woke enough to turn the damned jet engine off. After which, he rolled onto his side, still asleep and I laid awake, watching the time slip by as it was projected by my alarm clock onto the ceiling.
Speaking of the alarm clock... It died last night. It had a short, yet full life of functioning for three years, despite the children who poked it, pressed it's buttons randomly, and used it occasionally as a step to climb into my bed. It survived me hitting the snooze button countless times and the inevitable cursing when I finally dragged myself from bed every morning. I think that of all of the alarm clocks which I have had during my three dozen years, this alarm clock was my favorite because I could program two different alarms with multiple functions and project the time onto the ceiling so that if a child woke overnight, I could simply open my eyes and there would be the time, no fumbling, no squinting without my glasses, it was just there, a floating blue metronome on my ceiling.
How did my darling alarm clock die?
I am embarrassed to admit that I killed it. I killed it when I was trying to stay organized. I killed it when I dropped my underwear on it, setting them there so that I could find them after Scott and I attempted to conceive our elusive third child. Because I didn't want to fumble around in the dark searching for my Hanes, I selfishly killed my alarm clock.
RIP.
The last two nights have been, shall we say, interesting in the ol' master bedroom. First of all, my husband sleeps with a bi-pap machine because he has crazy sleep apnea. We, well, I discovered the apnea when I would wake at night to nurse a newborn Violet. I would snuggle down in the chair and listen to Scott's very loud rhythmic snoring. As I became more attuned to the music he made, I started hearing decrescendos in his snoring -- as in I could hear as his airway closed and his snoring would sound pinched, getting quieter and quieter until there was silence. During the silence I would chuck whatever handy object was near me at him, hoping to jostle him into breathing again. He would resume breathing with a snort and start right back in with the snoring. One morning, after he woke to find four half empty water bottles, two bath towels and a book in the bed, he decided to call the doctor and arrange a sleep study, after which he was prescribed the bi-pap.
Now, I realize that I have little to complain about the Darth Vader sleeping next to me, but the bi-pap will shoot cold air at me if he's facing me, something which inevitably wakes me with a start. The machine is keeping him from suffering the apnea, and therefore, it is ensuring that he will wake the next day. But still, it's a bit of an inconvenience -- I can't kiss his face when he's sleeping, he can't wake me gently with kisses on my shoulders, and he has to sleep with hurricane-force winds bombarding his face all night long.
At least most nights. Some nights, he removes the mask due to discomfort. When he does, he turns off the machine and hangs his mask over the headboard. The moment when he removes his mask is accompanied by a very loud whoosh (read: jet engine turbine) unless he turns the machine off before removing the mask. Which he usually does.
Usually.
Sunday night, however, he only managed to get the mask off his face. He didn't remember to turn the machine off, he didn't remember to hang his mask -- in fact, it was tucked into the crook of his arm, whooshing away. For an hour. For an hour in which I was roused several times by the noise. For an hour during which I poked him, trying to wake him after the several times I was awakened. For an hour, which concluded in me shoving him with both of my hands until he woke enough to turn the damned jet engine off. After which, he rolled onto his side, still asleep and I laid awake, watching the time slip by as it was projected by my alarm clock onto the ceiling.
Speaking of the alarm clock... It died last night. It had a short, yet full life of functioning for three years, despite the children who poked it, pressed it's buttons randomly, and used it occasionally as a step to climb into my bed. It survived me hitting the snooze button countless times and the inevitable cursing when I finally dragged myself from bed every morning. I think that of all of the alarm clocks which I have had during my three dozen years, this alarm clock was my favorite because I could program two different alarms with multiple functions and project the time onto the ceiling so that if a child woke overnight, I could simply open my eyes and there would be the time, no fumbling, no squinting without my glasses, it was just there, a floating blue metronome on my ceiling.
How did my darling alarm clock die?
I am embarrassed to admit that I killed it. I killed it when I was trying to stay organized. I killed it when I dropped my underwear on it, setting them there so that I could find them after Scott and I attempted to conceive our elusive third child. Because I didn't want to fumble around in the dark searching for my Hanes, I selfishly killed my alarm clock.
RIP.
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