So tired, tired of waiting, tired of…zzz

So tired, tired of waiting, tired of…zzz

Great googly moggly, I’m exhausted.  Here’s the conundrum: I have to get up as early as 5am and no later than 7am every day of the week.  It’s just the stage of life I’m in: between getting kids to school and me to various works and church commitments, that’s the wake up window.

And then kids are going to sleep later than they used to – bedtime is now 8:30pm, with them truly down and settled around 8:45pm.

I’m a gal who needs 7-8 hours a night to feel like I can function.  Sleep.  It’s the best.

Counting back, that means I need to be asleep from 9pm to 11pm on various nights.  Because I’m an insomniac, having different bedtimes on different nights is hard for me – makes me less likely to get sleep.  Responsible Erika says we should always be asleep by 9pm, then…which means starting my bedtime ritual around 8:30pm…which is the same time as my 6 year old son.

Indignant Erika doesn’t like that one bit.  So, I stay up.  I have one quiet hour and a half with Andrew, then we go to bed.  I’m asleep around 11:30pm.

Those of you who are counting on your fingers now realize this means I am never getting my 7-8 hours, and on some nights I am only getting 5.5.

I’m.  SO.  TIRED.

Yes, I can shift that back to starting for bed at 10/10:30…but it’s still not quite enough.

I’ve been kind of ignoring the issue, hoping it was just this pocket of time and when we move to the next pocket of time, the issue would resolve itself…but it doesn’t seem to be the case.  Also, looking ahead, Isaac’s buses are only going to come earlier (summer school has an earlier start than regular school) and earlier (high school starts 90 minutes before middle school).  If I’m waiting for this pocket of time to change, well, it’s a really big-ass pocket of sleep deprivation.

UGH.  Parenting oneself STINKS.

I’m considering just going to bed at the same time as the kids until I feel caught up, and then assessing.  I make better decisions when I’m not a zombie.  Indignant Erika isn’t thrilled with the idea, but Sleepy Erika is Cranky.

To my husband

To my husband


I see you.

I see you get up earlier than you’d like to walk the dog, to make lunches for the boys, to wash-their-faces-brush-their-teeth-comb-their-hair in our one bathroom early enough so you can have a few moments in there to yourself before that bus alarm.

I see you commute further than most of your coworkers who don’t need to think about public schools with autism services.

I see you work late, 1 hour, 2 hour, 3 hours late, and still hustle home to try to make the bedtime ritual.  I don’t know when leaving at 5pm became “not working hard enough” and I hate it for you, but I see you play that game so well, controlling the optics of who sees you at work, doing damn fine work while you’re there, and still making our family a priority.

I see you leave for business trips by plane, by train, by carpooling with coworkers, and I know your introverted soul shrinks at all the social niceties and politics you must play on this trips, and I see you nevertheless do it well.  I see you take a deep breath and pack your suitcase and go back out, because it’s part of the job, and this job makes our life here possible.

I see that on Saturdays, the house is a little cleaner when I return from teaching than when I left.  I don’t see you cleaning since I’m not home, but I know our boys, so I know it’s you.

I see you set up the diffuser at night so I have one less obstacle between me and finally getting in bed (one more thing, I say, one more thing to do…)

I see that you are weary.  I see how the dark, cold, New England winters pull you down.  I see how you work so hard, give so much, and have so much less freedom to do fun things, new things, on a whim things than your peers.  And I see how in all of that, you never give up.  You get out of bed and keep going.

I see how you educate people about attachment parenting, about breastfeeding, about autism, about special education, about all these things you surely never thought you’d have to think about, but here you are standing up for it because it’s important to our family, and I see how fiercely you love and protect our family.

You asked me to take your last name when we married because you wanted us all, you, me, and our future children, to share a name.  To be a Team.  I saw that family in your eyes when you told me this, and I had no idea what our future held, but I wanted to do it with you.  That spark, that dream you had, I see you fight for it, slave for it, prioritize it, day after day.  It is harder than we ever imagined, and it is richer too, and it began with you.

I see you.  I love you.



On Trend

On Trend

I am wearing these shoes today.


I got them from StitchFix, which yes, I still subscribe to.  Every 3 months they send me a box, and I try everything on. I usually love everything and have to carefully select what I want from many positive options, since my clothes-money envelope isn’t the best funded envelope in our cash envelope system.

Occasionally, I don’t like the box so much, but since I’ve already paid the $20 styling fee, I pick out one item to keep and use.  I tell myself I’ll wear it for a month and see how it goes, and donate it to Goodwill if it just doesn’t click.  Playing with clothes, with fashion, is fun for me.

These shoes were my “if you say so” purchase from 2 shipments ago.  I have never owned or worn shoes like these before.  And yet, every time I wear them, women, usually young women, early-20s women with confidence and sense of style, these women go out of their way to walk up to me and say, “Your shoes.  I love them.”

And I look at them, these black wedge booties with the weird rope detail, and I think, “really?”

Yet, I’ve kept them.

I wear them.

I’m “On Trend”.

I’m sort of a different person when I wear them – a person who tries new things, a person who is taller with longer legs, a person who smiles and takes compliments in stride.  For now, this is still fun and worth the money.

Someone give me a heads up when these on-trend shoes become out of style, though, okay?  Because I don’t get them in the first place.