I ain't writ in so long cause I ain't slept none, neither.
Not for many, many moons has this head spent 3 consecutive hours resting upon a pillow.
And so, I'll leave you with this:
I'm alive. I'm sitting alone at the computer in front of a three-quarters empty bottle of red wine, and my husband took the smallest tyrant to the local organic grocery store by.him.self.
And obviously, instead of, oh, sleeping or maybe getting freaky wild and showering... I'm catching up on me internets.
Because last night...oh, let me tell you about last night.
It started at 10 pm when John Paul unexpectedly passed out AND was successfully transferred to his pack n play with minimal blood, sweat or tears.
I promptly passed out into a deep and dreamless stupor only to be awakened not by my starvingstarvingstarving 7 week old who'd gone 78 minutes between feedings, but to a frantic husband clutching not one but TWO babies and urgently ordering me in between machine gun bursts of thunder and apocalyptic lightening 'into the basement, there's a tornado warning!'
Note: we don't have a basement.
I made the mistake of hesitating and asking him what in the heezy he meant by basement, at which he promptly barked at me 'not to argue with him, this is real!' before hustling me out of the bedroom and into our kitchen where he pried up the awkward trap door in the filthy linoleum and disappeared down a rotting wooden ladder into the bowels of hell. With the laptop. And exterior baby.
Dumbfounded, I sat on the kitchen floor with formerly interior baby resting inexplicably silently in my arms, and then realized that he was a. serious and b. waiting for me to drop down into the dungeon behind him.
Summoning all my womanly courage, I hoisted the baby onto my shoulder and backed barefoot down the decrepit 'staircase' into the packed-dirt dungeon from Silence of the Lambs. Only no killer. And more spiders. (Oh, you never saw the horror movie/psychological thriller du jour from the 90's? Well, your soul is in better shape than mine.)
45 minutes later, Accuweather.com had convinced my vigilant Midwestern husband that perhaps we could relocate to the boy's closet on the 'main' level. Let me be perfectly clear: our rental house is 1,000 feet square in a generous estimate, and there sure as hell isn't a basement to speak of. Don't get me started on the 'attic.'
We ended the cray cray crazy stormy night huddled in Joey's walk in closet (much more generously appointed than ours, I jealously noted), praying a decade of the Rosary and feeding a certain someone a tasty midnight treat of banana and water. (The provisions I grabbed as we fled to safety.)
Never not an adventure...
Here's hoping the vino renders me unresponsive should tonight's equally ominous weather report yield repeat nocturnal antics. God help us all.