The mouse trap

The night before last, I got three hours of sleep.    The Little Kid’s vomiting started at midnight and I didn’t drop into bed until 4:00 a.m.

Round and round I went - drying her tears, calming her fears, changing jammies and sheets, cleaning the carpet, wiping down the mat I had now limited her to sitting on, changing jammies again, calming her fears again, drying tears again, rinsing more clothing, cleaning her up again, drying tears again, wiping down the mat again, rinsing more clothing, then back to change jammies again.    It just seemed to go on forever -  1 sheet, 1 mattress pad, 5 pairs of jammie pants, 3 jammie shirts, 2 pairs of socks, 3 blankets, 2 diapers, 2 washcloths, and a truckload of disinfecting wipes, paper towels, carpet cleaner, stain remover and laundry detergent.

When I finally collapsed into bed it was like a boulder hitting the ocean floor.

The day and a half since then have not been much better, since I have not fully recovered from the sleep deprivation, but then, as moms, do we ever?

While I’ve known for a while that sleep deprivation is a continual state of being, I’m starting to see another pattern emerge.   It’s the Mommy Maze.

You know the one; it’s just like that little box the mice run around in.   You think you’re getting somewhere, but then you hit a dead end, so you double back the way you came and you end up running the whole stupid track all over again.   Once in a while, you take a different path, thinking you’ll surely get further along this time, but then, BAM, you hit another wall and before you know it, you’re back at the starting line again. 

My days are like this so often that I can almost feel the eyes of some group of unseen spectators.

Just as I went round and round cleaning up after my poor, sick little one, I spend the rest of my waking hours feeling like I’m not getting anywhere.

No sooner than I sit down at the computer, I hear, “I need help, please”, so I jump up.  Not just once, but every two minutes, or every time I start to put a coherent thought together, whichever comes first.

If I try to rinse bowls and load the dishwasher, I will inevitably have to dry my hands fifteen times because there will be something that requires my urgent attention every 6.8 seconds.

If I finally get a chance to put lotion on my aching, dry hands, there will surely be a poopy diaper that will require me to wash my hands and thus, wash away said lotion.

If I pick up a trail of toys at 12:30 to get ready for naptime, by the time I return with the blanket and pacifier at 12:35, there will now be a pile of books on the floor instead.

By the time I can sit down to my own dinner, Big Kid is already handing me his dirty dishes and Little Kid is asking to be cleaned up and freed from the high chair.  

And if it’s not the kids, it’s the Other One.   You know who I’m talking about.  The one who is supposed to help you get out of this maze alive, but instead just barrels ahead, kicking more roadblocks into your path. 

The wrinkle-free laundry that was wadded up and thrown into the basket.    The laundry that was never supposed to go into the dryer in the first place.  The laundry that was so considerately hung up to dry, but never shaken or smoothed out, so you now have to decide between ironing or just washing again.

And then there are the “clean” dishes.   You know, the ones you pull from the high-end model dishwasher he must be fantasizing that you own.  

Or it’s the shoes leaving black streaks across the kitchen floor before the mop has even had time to dry.

Path after path after path, they all hit a dead end.   I retrace my steps, I try again, I double back.   At first I hit my head on accident.  By the end of the day, I am bashing it in a conscious effort to free myself from this torture, one way or another.

But once in a while, I get to feeling bold, so I stand up and peek over a wall.   I am astonished to see other women who seem to be able to navigate this maze with such ease.    They are racing along running businesses, completing their master’s degree, marketing inventions, winning awards.   They are reaching for the stars, while I lay sprawled out watching stars dance around my throbbing head.

I just don’t get it.  I don’t understand if this success is just a lucky combination of genes, some trial and error concoction of ingredients they drank, or the good fortune of bashing their head against a secret passageway.

All I know is I’m not getting anywhere and I’ve got a giant headache.