The poor kid has the worst gas, and when I say worst, I mean the little bugger is keeping me up all night with it, two nights running. I want to pop him like a grape because I’m desperate for sleep and he needs so much relief. Of course, here we sit now and he’s fresh as a daisy (metaphorically speaking, of course…I have to change his pants in a minute) and I’m on the edge of sleep-deprived hallucinations (is that you, Elvis?).

And why is it that the times when you are most vulnerable are the ones when the cats behave their worst? Is there some special cat-cabal where it’s agreed that no matter how well or poorly they get along, as soon as the “owner” is falling apart, that’s the time to run roughsod through the house breaking things? I mean, is there a newsletter? Yeah, I must have been a sight at four in the morning, one boob exposed, chasing the cats out into the rain, grabbing the boy’s bouncy chair and sticking it in his crib, and then sticking the bun in this wacky aerie, hoping against hope that gravity and the “calming vibrations” would work some sort of magic combination that would allow gas to dissipate and sweet sleep to take me. Eventually he settled a bit and I took him out of his Rube Goldberg device, but because it seemed to work briefly, I imagine this terrible future in which every night I’m grabbing the bouncy seat and sticking it in his crib and chasing the cats in circles. It could happen quite easily.

The details begin to slip when you’re this tired. Normally I would use the filtered water to make my faux-coffee (half decaf), but today straight from the tap. Yesterday? I didn’t even bother making a pot–I just nuked a cup from the day before. Maybe this is common practice, but I’d certainly never done it before and it felt pathetic and sad.

And there he sits, being completely adorable, singing his little morning song and entertaining himself while all I want to do is dose him with valium so we can go back to bed.

A cup of joe it is, then.

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