I’ve been climbed on, demanded of, and entertaining all day long. All I want at the end of the day is a sensory deprivation tank and a really good tranquilizer. It’s a problem.
Sleep is the New SexLately there is nothing that comes close to the high I feel at the prospect of getting a few more hours of sleep. I’m exhausted, when my kid’s lil’ heads hit their pillows, all I want to do is visit dream land too. I’m totally addicted to sleep, and if I have to cut out a little lovin’ up to get it, I’ll do it. Sadly I’m not even making up for the lack of sex in my dreams, Brad Pitt might visit my subconscious but we are most certainly not making out. My brain is so exhausted it cannot even muster up the energy for a proper fantasy.
This is certainly not the fairy tale I signed up for. The fairy tale I signed up for involved 8hrs of sleep every night, a tiara, and a lot more hot monkey love. What the effing hell? I have become the totally lame woman of every motherhood horror story and it’s crushing my ego. This is not supposed to happen to me, I’m in my thirties for heaven sakes, I’m supposed to be at my sexual peak.
Determined not to let my life sucking yet adorable progeny get the best of me, I’ve been trying a few little things, like putting on lip gloss more often (my fave right now is Huge Lips Skinny Hips) and switching out my pilates DVD for strip tease aerobics. I feel a little sexier even if in reality, I most likely still have my pajamas on from the day before, my legs feel like prickly pears, and the dark circles around my eyes make me look like a prize fighter. It’s more about setting the intention in hopes that, at some point I’ll have the energy to act on said intentions (and God damn, my lips are shiny, tingling, and taste and smell like candy, how can I let the effort it took to find that tube of lip gloss and smear it on go to waste?)
For now though, I am legend in my own mind, in the three seconds between putting the kids to sleep and collapsing, I blow candy flavored kisses to my husband, the sash around yesterday’s pajamas that proclaims me, Melissa Pierce, Mrs. Hot Monkey Love 2009, flaps wildly behind me as I dive into bed, my tiara rolling off my exhausted head as my pony tail hits the pillow and I drift off to sleep.