Child Watch

So I’m fairly certain my three-year old daughter is on cocaine. I realize this is a shocking revelation- please feel free to take a moment to process. Where would she even get this highly illegal and addictive drug? you might ask. There’s a shady kid at the YMCA’s Child Watch that I’m keeping my eye on.  He has this Thomas the Tank Engine fleece- and he always keeps the hood up.  Always.

I have no other explanation for Ella’s insistence on using her bed as a trampoline during naptime or for her incessant babbling from 8 until 11:30 at night. Plus, she has a perpetually runny nose.

Even worse? I think she’s given some to the dog.

I’m extremely sleep deprived. My imagination has gone rather bent. Three of my kids have horrific colds and the fourth shouts in his sleep. In the wee hours of the morning, these words came suddenly from the mouth of Caleb:

“We are not going to eat THAT steak. Get the green puffles. And shoelaces. Cuidado!”

???

Last night, Ella coughed every hour, which was followed by her crying in her sleep. I think crying in one’s sleep is a sign of cocaine use. She settled only after I stroked her hair for a couple of minutes.

Daniel and Ben were able to sleep through their loud, hacking coughs. I was not so fortunate. At least John wasn’t here. John, a hypochondriac who projects his fears onto everyone else who has the most minor of sicknesses, listens to the children’s coughing with absolute dread.

“Are you going to check on him?” he’ll ask after each cough. At 3am, when you are snug under your cozy comforter, desperate for sleep, you might actually say something like this to your hypochondriac husband:

“Well, if he’s dead, he’s dead, and there’s nothing we can do about it. Let’s at least get some sleep and we’ll deal with it in the morning.” Which, by the way, is the wrong thing to say. He will probably get up in a huff to hover over the child who has the common cold, listening to each breath until he has convinced himself that imminent death is not on the horizon.

They look terrible, the kids. Red noses and chapped upper lips, shiny and slick with snot and the Vaseline I have slathered on for protection. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror this morning. I am pale, I mean paler than usual, with stringy hair and dead eyes. I wear baggy sweatpants and stained sweatshirts. I walk in a fog of sleeplessness, relying on caffeine for a temporary kick. I’ve been out twice in the past week; the world outside my house is slowly becoming a place of myth- I’m not sure it exists anymore. And yes, I’ll admit it. I contemplate the horrible, the unspeakable, the thing a mom should never ever contemplate.

I’m seriously considering approaching that kid in the Child Watch to ask for some cocaine. It seems to really help Ella get through the day.