My husband Mike can sleep through anything. Thunder storms, alarm clocks, nuclear disasters. So when it’s something small like, say, a crying baby, that baby doesn’t stand a chance. Coupled with his inability to awaken at unreasonable hours is his inability to function on very little sleep. If I’m up all night, I’ll be exhausted first thing in the morning but by the time I’m showered, dressed and out the door, I’m fine. If Mike doesn’t get enough sleep, he’s basically a zombie for an entire day. So this means that if the baby cries in the middle of the night, I bolt alert immediately but if Mike so much as shifts his pinkie finger, he’s out of commission for the next 24 hours. I’m not gonna lie— it’s annoying as hell.
A few days ago, when Mazzy woke up at 5am (the time she wakes up every morning— if you know how to fix this, tell me), I reached a breaking point. I decided that no matter what, Mike was waking up to take the early morning shift. Screaming, shaking, hitting, announcing that Alyssa Milano was standing naked at the foot of the bed— I was not playing. Finally, Mike woke up, and I said the three words no parent wants to hear, “It’s your turn.”
He mumbled fine, stumbled out of bed and I kid you not, walked straight into a wall. A WALL! To which I had no choice but to respond, “FORGET IT! There is no way you are handling my child— GET BACK IN BED!”
But now I’ve had a few days to reflect and Mike— I am calling you out. I think this is very similar to that time I encouraged you to make the bed and you did it so poorly that I never asked you to do it again. Actions designed to look charmingly well-intentioned but which are actually larger plots of cold calculated evil. Well, my dear husband— I am onto you. And tomorrow morning at 5am, I am resurrecting Sam Kinison and he is going to wake you the FUCK up.