Looking at my blog stats for the past week tell me two things: 1) I need to post more often, and 2) my loyal following is only loyal as long as I provide something for them to actually, um, read.
So I humbly apologize for being so lazy for the last week. In my defense, I did have a few good reasons. My first round of tests started last Thursday, and that meant I got zero sleep for three days in a row. When I walked into my 9:30 test on Thursday morning, my teacher looked at me sideways and asked me what was wrong with my eye.
Yeah, it looked like I’d been hitting a greasy doob right before I got to school. Any officer of the law would have asked me to walk a straight line right then and there. I just shrugged and told her it was all my pervy optometrist’s fault. (And it is. He fitted me for contacts that don’t, um, fit.)
Thursday night, from that redness sprang (sprung?) the most unholy of migraines I have ever experienced. I’ve weathered two day headaches before, but this one struck me with a ferocity I was not equipped to handle. It made me run crying, quite literally, to my mommy. (Hi, Mom!)
By Saturday afternoon, my face and hands were tingling, and there were black spots swimming at the periphery of my vision. It took every ounce of my willpower to get Boo fed and bathed before I threw my hands up to the heavens in defeat.
I called the cavalry.
Before I could choke out, “Mommy, I huuuuuuuurt,” my sainted mother drove thirty minutes to my house in her flaming chariot/Kia Sorento to save the day. She took Boo back to her house for a sleepover, and I immediately keeled over in the dark with Red’s sleepy mask over my eyes and tried not to move too much.
A liter of Pedialyte and five hours later, I woke up, bordering on functional again. My brain was still pounding a merry tattoo against my skull–like my manic British neighbor Stewart fueled by an ounce of primo Mauwie Wauwie, beer, and his fucking African bongo drum–but at least I could stand up without feeling as if I was going to lose my lunch at any second. I spent the remainder of the evening curled up in bed watching Supernatural Season 5, and then slept until 11:00 the next morning.
Boo was very glad to see me when I picked him up. He absolutely loves spending time with his grandparents, but he’s always ready to go home to his own turf when the time comes. For some reason, every second of the night he spends in my parent’s bed is a circus of cartwheeling and kicking and thrashing that would put a duo of Asian gymnasts to shame.
Obviously, no one gets very much sleep.
This time was no exception; he popped up like a gopher on crystal meth at 5:00 Sunday morning, after only eight hours of bedroom acrobatics, and decided it was high time for everyone to get up and bend to his will play. Normally, Boo is comatose for 12 to 14 hours straight at night, so the time he spent rolling around all over hell and half of Georgia was more like a refreshing nap than a good night’s rest.
So I could understand why he grabbed his giant ass bunny and trotted to the front door, declaring, “Go home, Mommy,” at the very sight of me. Poor kid was worn plumb smooth out, as my Texan father would put it. I just scooped him up in a hug and rocked him slowly back and forth until he forgot that he wanted to go home. But he was awfully happy to see his crib that night, if his contented sighs and him burrowing a cozy nest into his mound of stuffed animals meant anything.
Now it’s Monday evening and I’ve run out of excuses not to write. I talked to my editor this evening, and the deadline for the submission of my first week’s worth of articles is set for October 9th. That means I’ve got exactly 19 days to get three (professional!) articles written, in addition to my regular school work and the care and continued existence of a very busy almost-two-year-old.
Who may or may not be subsisting on a diet of cookies, bananas, Ruffles potato chips, and French onion dip. Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve officially entered the terrible twos.
And they can officially blow me.