When I was a new mom I felt as many new moms feel. Full of love and unabashed adoration for my wee baby? Maybe. But mostly TIRED! People ask me questions about when she first talked, or the terrible-two tantrums, and to be honest… I just don’t remember. I wasn’t sleeping because my baby was channeling a coked up stock broker. She never slept. She wasn’t terribly grumpy (I think, although maybe I am making that up since I don’t really remember). She just wasn’t a sleeper.
Early on in this new phase of life, where I first learned that “bags” are like a scar – they will never leave my face, I started doing things in my sleep (besides the obvious dreaming thing). I walked, I talked, I high kicked the wall (I was one of Charlie’s Angels in that dream) – rebreaking my big toe YET again! I even carried my pug down the hall one night, with the intention of putting him into my daughter’s crib. He was my daughter, in my warped semi-conscious state. It wasn’t until I was outside her door that he squirmed and I woke up, confused, with a googly eyed pug cradled in my arms, looking at me suspiciously. During the day light hours, I wore my clogs to the gym, I left my coffee on the roof of my car (daily) and I forgot my daughter’s well-baby check – three times in a row!
Sometime during this 2-3 year sleep deprived phase of my life, my labrador got sick. Since I had nothing else to worry about (baby breathing? oh okay, she’s breathing. she’s been quiet too long. is she alive? oh okay, she’s breathing)… I started obsessing about my big under-the-weather doggie. I was in bed, where I sleep with my dogs and sometimes my husband. When he can fit. Sometimes he sleeps on the couch, because there’s more room. I started rubbing my lab’s belly belly, kinda feeling for anything weird. I was “palpating,” massage therapists tend to do. As I was lightly assessing her tummy, half asleep, in the dark, I found something. Oh no. “It’s a tumor. I just know it,” said my over-analyzing, starving for sleep brain.
I continued to feel around this strange mass. Exploring it with more wakeful intent, now. Getting more freaked out by the minute. I reached over to turn the light on to see if my eyes would help me understand what my hands were feeling. That they did. Laying next to me, with a look of satifsfaction on his face, was my pug. He was on his back. He was not the tumor on my lab. But, his wiener was. He was looking at me like he needed a cigarette. When my laughter finally woke my husband (not the lightest sleeper) he said,
“You just gave our pug a hand job?!?!”
Well, doesn’t that just figure. Obviously my bubble was sleep deprived and in need of a hot shower that twisted evening. Ew.