I am tired.

I am tired and actually wondered if there is a nice family with a farm somewhere, with miles of soft fenced in grass for Butters to run and pounce in – and wi-fi so my son will visit her.

9pm is ‘official’ bedtime in our house.  Meaning, the Goodnight sleep tights are said – hugs are had and we hit our rooms.

Usually about 9:30 or 10 is when I switch off the tv or call it a night and let my Nook rest.

Then it begins.

From approximately 10-11 I’m scratching, tossing, turning and peeking at the clock.  No, for the record – no bed bugs – it’s dry out here in the desert and with the heater on in the house I have an itchy epidermis that presents  only at night – I need some of those little baby mittens:

Yeah, those will do nicely.  I’d save the polka dots for the weekend – put some zazz in my Z’s.

Anyway – last night the dog was actually sleeping … good sign. 

Midnight.  I hear a noise in the kitchen.  Someone trying to be quiet in the kitchen.  Hmmm … process of elimination.

1) Only two other breathing things live here other than me

2) Butters is not capable of being quiet would not be the kitchen

Nic.

I’ve coined the phrase ‘Church mousing’.  Don’t ask me why – considering the church mouse is supposed to be quiet.  But, it works around here.  I’ll hear him usually scrounging around and call out ‘I hear you church mousin’ around out there!’  To which a laugh and response of ‘Good night mom’ is followed by him taking his foraged items back to his room.

But midnight?  Midnight snack yeah – but he had school today for crying out loud.

I spend another 15 minutes trying to get comfy. 

1am – another noise from the kitchen. 

Really?  Jeez!!!!!!!  I’m too tired to get up and call him out on it, too tired to call out and frankly, a little concerned that if I respond in any way vocally or physically, my arse is not going to be able to fall back to sleep.

More tossing and turning.

2am – Butters has now evolved from her perfected ‘stare’ and thump of tail to a new move.  The front leg pounce – landing right on the 1/2 foot of mattress space between me and the edge of the bed.

Wonderful.  Sort of like this guy, but with her hind legs on the floor.

OKAY!  Up I get.  Let her out … stumble back to my room, the front door is open but I’m used to this routine by now, she’ll come back in a few minutes, plop down on the floor, or the bed and up I get again to go back to close and lock the door.

Half an hour later – pounce. 

#$@*!!!

Up I get – let her out – wait – in she comes.  Get up, shut and lock door.

God only knows how much later  – pounce (and a thump thump).

This time I’m glaring at her, quickly realize I’ve got my eyes open far too wide and walk with my eyes completely closed to the door.  (that old trick of if I don’t open my eyes, I won’t wake all the way up) Let her out and back to bed. 

I decide then and there that the door will remain open.  I weigh the pros and cons of a serial killer just waltzing in.

1) I’ll be too tired to really feel much pain

2) Maybe he can let the flipping dog out next

Pounce. Thump, thump.  I almost don’t get up.  I almost don’t.  Then I remember she had an upset stomach just this weekend and oh hell no am I going to wake up and step in something.

Up I get.

Now – the door is still open – not WIDE open, but at least 3 inches cracked open.  Even I could nose a door completely open with 3 inches to work with!!!  She’s screwing with me now.

Out she goes again.

My mind is mush – my body begging for some REM.  Back to bed I go, but it’s too late.

I startle at 5:55 am – after a brief slip into unconsciousness and give up.  The alarm is set to go off at 6.

You can imagine the mood I’m in. 

BUT!  I had already planned to cook Nic a hot breakfast.  Eggs and maple sausages.  Because, and I quote “I love it at Tylers house, his mom makes maple sausages and pancakes”

I think I responded at the time with a “Pffft” but of course it stuck in my mind.

I make the damn food.

Take it in to my child.

Grab my coffee and check Facebook.

My son’s last post “5 hours ago”.  It’s now 6.  Which means, he didn’t just wake up and need a drink or a snack.  His arse was on his ipad.

I head to my room – brush my teeth, come back out and there – on the counter – is a plate with one egg and 4 1/2 out of 5 sausages. 

“Why didn’t you eat your breakfast?” 

“I’ve never liked sausages … you know that.”

Anyone have a farm with a fenced in expanse of soft grass? Never mind the dog and the boy – I want to come sleep on it.