Rough night last night. For me, at least.
With lucky SuperDad blissfully hopped-up on Nyquil, I had no choice but to transform myself into SuperMom. It's not a role I do well.
I slide into the role of Martyr Mom way too easily.
Yes, a multitude of challenges confronted SuperMom last night, starting at around 2 am. It was our usual pattern, recognizable to SuperMoms everywhere:
- Baby C crying. I leap out of bed to the rescue. Don't worry, baby! SuperMom is on her way!
- Stumble in dark down long hallway, accompanied by affectionate Pee Monster trying to trip me.
- Binkify baby. Rewind.
- Binkify baby again 10 minutes later.
- 20 minutes later: Now where's the flippin' binky gone?
- Sigh. Feed baby, burp baby, get new binky. Plug her up.
- Bathroom break.
- Stub toe in darkened hallway.
- Get attacked by Pee Monster, who swats at my ankle. Daring new tactic since previous tripping attempt was unsuccessful. ( He drew blood, by the way.) Oh, do be quiet, Martyr Mom!
- Lock furry nemesis out of bedroom.
- Reclaim tiny section of bed and scrap of duvet from SuperDad.
- Lay awake for 2+ hours trying to think of something brilliant to write today.
- Ah, glorious slumber!
My well-deserved rest was not all that restful, as it turned out. I awoke in a cold sweat shortly thereafter, my heart pounding, with the word "NO!" still on my lips. I'm not quite sure if I yelled or even spoke it aloud. SuperDad still lay comatose beside me.
A nightmare. Bits and pieces of it still remained in my mind. I was tied to a track, with a gigantic train barreling down on me at top speed, its evil eyes piercing the night. Its sharp teeth were locked in a fierce snarl, its whistle, a demonic cackle. It was at this point that I woke up. As I lay wondering what triggered this dream, I remembered a particularly challenging paper I wrote in graduate school. When my brain still worked.
It was a study of the train metaphor in
La Bete Humaine, (loosely translated as
The Beast in Man), by Emile Zola. Zola uses the image of a train as metaphor for man and society during the rule of Napoleon III (1852 to 1870) . When gripped by the passion of his inherent primitive nature, man is not unlike the train depicted in the novel's closing passage. In this terrifying scene, the engineer and conductor are thrown from the train during a fight and are crushed under its wheels. Like a wild beast without a rider, the train gallops down the track shrieking and spitting fire, towards its final fate.
This must be the terrifying image from my dream! Somewhere in the mushy muddle that is my
mommy brain, I had recalled something of my pre-kid life!
I went down to the kitchen, and as I prepared my coffee Ibegan to wonder if all was not lost after all. As I drank it down, I cast my eyes around my not-so-tidy dining room, still scattered with presents from RJ's recent birthday party. This is what I saw:
The birthday cards...
the popcorn and rice snacks....
the Thomas Pocky and vegetable puffs (actually quite yummy!)
And who could forget the Thomas backpack, lunch box, plate, utensils (pictured on the Thomas place mat), and last but not least, the portable Thomas chalk/whiteboard?
Not pictured: Thomas DVD's, Thomas candy, wooden and cast-iron trains
Wait a second! Come to think of it, maybe that train in my nightmare was blue...
Okay, I guess my bad dream was not the product of some painstakingly researched paper of days gone by. I hope that part of my brain is not gone for good! Sadly, I have no choice but to concede that perhaps an extremely generous and slightly overzealous grandfather and his girlfriend are solely to blame. Gee, thanks guys!
If it's all the same with you, I think I'll sleep with one eye open tonight.
Recent Comments