Josh is out of town again and we’re behind on our advent readings. It’s always a lovely, cozy scene: kids interrupting or talking while I’m reading, me yelling, “Be quiet or I’m quitting right now and you’ll all go straight to bed!” Camille wandering off sneaking chocolate (from my stash because she already busted through all 24 days of her chocolate advent calendar while I wasn’t looking) or runs in circles around the room because the more tired she gets, the more wired she gets and my blood pressure starts to rise. Every night I vow that I’m going to make it a special and memorable time and it’s memorable all right — the permanent lines etched on my face won’t let me forget.
Tonight was extra special — I was trying to be less of a scrooge so I made spiced cranberry cider so they’d have something to drink while I read. Busy mouths are quiet mouths, right? I’m about 1/2 way through the first paragraph when the dog starts tearing from bedroom to bedroom, leaping on and off the beds, running in circles like he’s lost his mind. Back and forth, back and forth, the cat dashing from under one bed to the other, staying out of the way of the dog’s galloping legs. He sprints through the room, tail whipping back and forth and sprints back out. Like I can read over that racket. We hear a thumping noise and then the dog starts coughing — a honking, wheezing cough that is odd enough that I put down the book and go investigate. The pile of feathers in the middle of one of the beds is not what I wanted to see. The old down comforter finally gave up and the seams split in the middle of one of the dog’s skids. The dog, attempting to hork up the feathers, drank a bunch of water and promptly threw it up.
As I bundle up the comforter, trying to contain the downy whiteness that is flying all over (White Christmas indeed!), I find that it has ripped all the way through and feathers are spilling out of both sides and it looks like someone butchered a goose in the middle of the room. I got it out to the trash and then shook out the blanket that was underneath to try to get some of the feathers to settle on the floor. Whoops! I guess Camille set her spiced cider on the end of the bed so now there’s a red sticky feathery mess on the carpet. 10 baby wipes later the carpet is passable and most of the feathers have either stuck to the floor or to my black yoga pants. Time to get back to the reading.
It didn’t go any better. I yelled at Camille for repeatedly poking at my face and climbing all over me, at Carter for asking me to read another chapter in the middle of a sentence before I had even finished the first section, and at Caleb for wandering off to get his homework that he had forgotten to have me sign. I’m sure I yelled at Calvin too, but who’s counting?
Good grief, time for bed. Hallelujah, let’s have peace and quiet. I’ve worked out that the boys have to sleep in one room and Camille in the other, otherwise she keeps them awake with her talking, wandering around the room, and climbing all over them. 3 1/2 years later and I still can’t figure out how to get her to go to sleep. So Carter and Caleb climb in and
find . . . surprise! The cat has peed on their bed. I cleaned out the catbox today and put some fancy new organic walnut shell litter in it so the cat doesn’t die from inhaling nasty clay dust and toxic chemicals. I guess that pissed off the cat both figuratively and literally.
Time to strip the bed, clean the mattress, and reconfigure the boys’ sleeping arrangements. They all climbed into one bed, which resulted in a series of “Mom! Caleb is talking and I can’t sleep!” from one room and “Mom! I’m scared!” from the other. Then it turned to “I can’t sleep because it’s too crowded in here” so now one of the boys is in my bed, Camille is asleep in the hallway (because she’s weird like that), and the other 2 boys are sleeping in the urine-free bed. Come Lord Jesus, come!