A Case of the Monday Nights

Tuesday is the one day a week I work, so Monday night is always the same for me. Once we have all three boys down to bed, preparation for the next day begins:

Make sure the black backpack has extra clothes and underwear for the two older boys. Check.

Begin the tedious task of packing the red diaper bag for a baby who never stops spewing (this entails a minimum of six outfits, a wet bag, several bibs, and 8-10 burp cloths). Check. If there is not enough of any of these items, more laundry must be started.

Fold at least two loads of laundry. Check.

Begin organizing breast milk into bottles for the next day. Also pump once more for added milk. Check.

Get work things organized (computer charging, documents ready to go). Check.

Realize that I need to plan an outfit because most of my clothes have spit-up on them from the previous two days, and my outfits are still limited because I haven't quite shaken that baby weight yet. Check.

Realize that I need to go jogging today to help shake that remaining baby weight. It's too late. Shoot.

Take a shower instead and head to bed because the alarm goes off at 6AM. Don't even think about trying to take a moment to myself that evening because it comes directly out of the sleep bank. Check.

As I lay my head on my pillow and pull the sheets over me every Monday night between 11:30 and midnight, I always fervently hope that the 'case of the Monday nights' really is just in my imagination and isn't an actual curse. Surely it's been merely coincidence that the last umpteen Monday nights are the ones when I get the worst sleep because my children suddenly need anything and everything in the wee hours---and it won't actually happen again tonight! Such was my hope as I lay down at 11:23PM on Monday night, May 5. Here is my chronicle of events that followed:

•  11:56PM: Just as I am going from light sleep into 'mommy sleep' (a deeper sleep but still not the coma that most fathers seem able to slip into at the drop of a hat), the monitor begins blaring. Van is awake and he's not happy. I get up and put the paci in his mouth. 
• 11:58PM: Yeeeaaah, that didn't work. Plus he spat up. Time for a change of jams and a midnight feeding.
• 12:03AM: Feeding on the couch with a peaceful baby while I consume a handful of animal crackers and crossly watch a beautiful couple purchase a second home in Hawaii on HGTV.
• 12:23AM: Van back sleeping in his crib, back to bed for me.
• 12:40ish: I actually fall back asleep.
• 1:48AM: George has a nightmare and comes into our room crying. The hell if I'm putting any effort into settling him back into his own bed. Into our bed between us he goes.
• 1:52AM: "Mommy, I need my ninnies." Ah. He came into our room without time to grab his two beloved blankets, so up I get to trek into his room and find his ninnies. One of them is wet from a leaky sippy cup of water. Oh well. I warn him that it's wet, but what can I do? He doesn't seem to care.
• 1:55AM: I'm back to sleep.
• 2:15AM: I'm punched in the back by a writhing, sleeping toddler. Rearrange toddler and resume my sleeping.
• 4:25AM: The monitor goes off. Van is awake again! In the wailing words of Dennis Quaid in a collaborative prank with Ellen, "Why me God? Whyyyyyyy?" I promptly fall back asleep.

(The "Why me, God?" part is at 2:40 if you aren't interested in the rest, but the whole thing really is funny.)

•  4:29AM: Oh yeah. Van is crying. Woops, I meant to get up and check on him and accidentally fell back asleep. On my way to his room, he falls quiet! Relieved, I tiptoe back to bed.
• 4:43AM: Nope, he's definitely up. This time I am too, for a second nightly feeding with a kid who typically sleeps away the night. What the??
• 4:45AM: Complain to the FB world.
• 5:13AM: Back into bed. Now I can set my alarm back to 6:15 because Van has drunk all my milk and I will have nothing left to pump, so I may as well eliminate that part from my morning routine. 
• 5:35AM: I wake to the sound of Silas walking down the hall to our bedroom. A boy who rarely wets the bed, he has of course wet the bed on this very night, the night before my workday. 
• 5:45AM: Back into bed, where I sleep soundly until my alarm goes off 30 minutes later.

I don't want to piece together how little sleep that is because I've had less than that for longer periods of time. The point is that my kids, who often do have me up in the middle of the night for their individual needs, seem to conspire to all need something en masse on the nights before I'm expected to listen deeply for many hours of the day to clients with all sorts of problems ranging from depression to active psychosis. Really, kids? Do you somehow know that I'm going to be away from you for the day and you're trying to make up for the lost time? I love my children dearly, or else I wouldn't beg to be home with them six days a week; home is really where I want to spend my time. But come on kids, leave me be on Monday night! I want to sleep, so stop the antics! Sweet Brown said it best: "Ain't nobody got time for that!" Until my children receive this message and change accordingly, however, I best just do without the sleep and then go get me a cold pop Jesus the next morning in order to make it through the day. My hat's off to working moms.