It's Sunday, and at last a barnacle of an idea has adhered itself to my mental bulwark, which, thanks to several ventures beyond the Ordinary, has lately been taking on water. I began the week traveling, and then suddenly my wife and I turned into inveterate partyers. We've spent the last few nights pickling ourselves in alcohol, and it's unnerving. We find ourselves asking, "Who are we, and what have we done with us?"
I got back late on Wednesday, after the kids were asleep, and Thursday night we slicked back our hair and stepped out for a great evening--and a crappy night. Our usual sitter (for whom I would take several bullets, and possibly a blast from a BFG) was unavailable, so we left the boys with a friend's nanny, whom they know tangentially. This step even farther outside the lines of the standard bedtime routine was too much for Robert to process, so he wandered into our bedroom at 3:30am to make sure we 1) were where we should be and 2) had not been replaced by wax replicas.
He begged me--begged me!--to sleep with him in his bed for a "short time," and I, suffering from Daddy's Been Gone guilt, thought it was the least I could do. I had spent five minutes folding myself into his race car when he said "you should go back and sleep with your family." I might have been more taken aback had I not been so engulfed in predawn fog, but I did manage to tell him he was my family. And he said, "OK, but you said you would stay for a short time and it's been a long time already." A political way to tell his old man to hit the bricks.
So I unfolded myself and staggered back to my bed, where my wife and TwoBert had passed out in a perfect diagonal. TwoBert hasn't been sleeping well since his gums entered Round Two of the Teething Brigade, so I wasn't about to disturb their peace. That left me with the couch, and our deranged, elderly kitty who meows (make that maRRROOOOWWWs) at things that do not manifest themselves to human eyes.
Friday night my wife went out barhopping for her friend's birthday until 12:45, and I stayed in comforting TwoBert and his beleaguered gums. He desperately wanted to nurse, so I tried heating up some breastmilk for him. But he just chewed the nipple and spilled it all down his front, transforming him from a teething baby to a teething, sodden, smelly baby.
What, then, did I do with my Saturday night, when after a week of abuse I should have passed out on the couch at 9? I met up with some college buddies and bar-hopped until 4:30am, because 1) one friend was in town from Charlotte and was desperate for some night life, and 2) I am stupid.
And now that TwoBert is napping and I should be in there with him, sleeping off this hangover, I'm out here stupidly blogging instead. Because I like to pass that stupidity on to you.