I just stayed up until 3 a.m. watching old Love Boat and Firefly episodes and eating Boobaby’s leftover pasta.
This insomniac habit strikes about twice a week, although the specific mode of time-killing varies and there’s usually cookies involved if I can track ’em down.
I seem to need to get nothing done every once in a while, but as a stay-at-home parent, indolence is not part of the job description. I don’t care. I just gotta get my sloth on.
It’s not that I’m finding the addition of one more body all that hectic — Blueberry’s an easy baby. But no matter how good they are, there are three dependent people in the house whose self-reliance ranges from “none” to “can’t pick things up” to “must drop most food on the ground.” Thus I spend most of my time that’s not already claimed by bathtime and art projects simply walking around the house transporting stuff to stuff boxes, cleaning paint smudges, and refolding the same frikkin’ leotard over and over and over.
And that was a good day, with visitors and a grandma helping out.
I used to take “mental health days” constantly way back when I did office work — I got my work done, so my boss didn’t care. In fact, she recommended them all the time.
“Hey, Doodaddy-to-be, maybe you should go home!”
Come to think of it, I wonder why that boss wanted me gone all the time. Maybe everyone was partying without me. Just because you’re paranoid… But I digress.
Now “days” off are cobbled together from an odd few minutes stolen during naps to check my Facebook or listen to an old Superman radio serial.
Or, in an orgy of self-indulgence, I stay up late. It’s my vacation.
Sadly, as with all splurges, I’ll pay the cost eventually — and hard. The clock is ticking over now to 4 a.m. and I can see that this particular debt will be paid sooner than I’d like, by bone-melting exhaustion about four hours from now.
At least I got the break while it lasted.