Wednesday, August 11, 2004


Drew’s been sick all week so he’s been camping out in my room.
“I still havva cough” (cough cough) “and a stuffed up nose” (s-n-i-f-f) “so I get to sleep in your room again” he says as he places his new full sized body pillow on *his* side of the bed. He’s got his fan set up on an extra table in the corner. Plus his new Book of Lists, his two favorite beanie babies and a framed Bertuzzi card are on the night table on that side of the room. (I might just keep that Bertuzzi card after Drew moves back to his bunk bed. And move it to my side. How hard would it be to wake up and look at his rugged manly face? Not very, I imagine…)

Traditionally I wait all year for the summer season to begin so that I can go to the lake and sleep in.
That’s all.
To be near cool water on hot days. And be able to get up when I want, not when I have to.
Simple pleasures, no?

Max and Clint have been working fulltime this summer at LC&T. They start at 8 (sometimes on Saturdays at 7) and are finished at 4:30. I transport them both ways. Everyday. All summer long.

I’ve made it my practice to not fully awaken for the morning commute. If I don’t wash my face or brush my teeth, I can stay somewhat comatose for the drive. If the four intersection lights I go through are working in my favour, I can be back in bed in less than 18 minutes. (No doubt, any of the long-term employees that catch a glimpse of me in the morning are saying to themselves, “Ohh. So that’s why he left her…”)

The trouble with going back to bed after being marginally mentally stimulated by radio talk, traffic troubles or bickering boys, is that the sleep I fall into is fraught with dreams.

Take this morning, for instance. The clock radio woke me up at 7:40 with stupid on air flirting between the annoying male and ditzy female DJ’s. I drove behind a Jeep that had a Calvin & Hobbes decal in the back window. It was the one where Calvin is peeing. Bitter Jeep Owner had placed the words “The Ex-Wife” under the stream of urine. How immature. Why would anyone date a guy who proudly displays his resentment like that? Made me glad that Mark’s truck’s decal was a political “Canada Kicks Ass”, not a personal "I hate my ex."

I slide back into bed at 8:13, carefully staying on my 1/3 of the mattress in an effort not to wake Drew. (Yes, I leave him home alone for 20 minutes.) I lie on my side, facing outward, and desperately try to clear my mind of any thoughts. It’s easier to fall asleep with an empty head.
“…love you. See ya later.”
Sigh. Why am I thinking of that? Every morning for about 13 years, Mark would kiss my cheek and tell me he loved me before he headed off to work. I never needed an alarm clock for my side of the room, because his kiss was my wake up call. I’d get up as he left.

In June 1997, on the way to our pastor’s retirement dinner, he calmly informed me that his feelings had changed and he didn’t love me anymore. From that day forward, until he moved out permanently in December 1998, he never again woke me with a kiss. I bought a clock radio and every morning as CFOX woke me up, I said to myself, “He doesn’t love me anymore.”

A tear is threatening to slip out of it’s duct and I’m angry with myself for reliving an old pain. “He doesn’t love me anymore” has not been my waking thought for years. Why has that slipped into my mind now while I’m trying to fall back asleep?
“Mom?” a sleepy Drew lifts his head.
“Yeah? I’m here. Go back to sleep.” I whisper. “It’s still early.”
“Can your turn this way? he asks. “I like to see your beautiful face.”
I adjust the pillows, turn onto my right side and look into his 10 year old brown eyes.
“That’s better” he says with breath that could kill an elephant. “Love ya.” A stinky sigh of contentment escapes his lips and he’s asleep again.
I wiggle my face out of his breath’s path and fall asleep too.

And for some reason, Siegfried’s Roy is in my bed too. Along with his albino tiger. They declare their love for me and present me with a bag of Purdy's "Tiger Butter" chocolates. I flirt with them (Roy and his pet) until unexpectedly the tiger attacks me. Fear grips my innards as I try to protect my face from the tiger’s open mouth and brutally sharp teeth. His breath, as he roars, burns my nose hairs. Just as he pounces upward to strike me, he becomes Hobbes. Toothless and clawless. Stuffed. And plush. I wrap myself around his soft, squishy shape and wake up with my arms and legs squeezing Drew’s new body pillow.

Tomorrow, I’m just gonna stay up after I drive the guys to work. Read a book or somethin’. That extra hour of sleep isn’t very restful anyway.


Three things I’m thankful for:

Not so much:

Take care

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