Snickerfodder

Waking the Whatsisnoozins

Posted on: September 17, 2009

 

Know when I love my children the most?

 

 

When they’re sleeping.

 

That’s when I remember how Daddy (aka El Guapo and The Dingus) used to snuggle up with them, all toasty and cuddly.  He nicknamed our sleepy babes ‘the whatsisnoozins’.

That’s when I look at them, when they’re whatsisnoozin, all soft and warm and pink and sweet-smelling and so precious… I could just eat’em up.  That’s when I get all-filled with mamalove.  That’s when I look at my babies, my little whatsisnoozins, and I get all reminiscent and mushy and misty….

Then I snap out of my little daylight-daydream, my little delusion, and I realize, “Oh, hell!  I’m gonna have to wake’em up.”

Now, no doubt you know the old saying about letting sleeping dogs lie.  The same wisdom applies to the whatsisnoozins; it’s best to allow them to awake of their own accord. 

This tack especially holds true for M1; waking her can be likened to playing Russian Roulette – only in reverse.  But in this case, you’re praying for that one, singular shot.  You’re praying for that one, singular chance that she will awaken as a pleasant, sweet-tempered angel.  It’s those other chances in the chamber that you sweat.  

From day one, that child has thrown titanic tantrums if awakened.  The instant her eyes open, she scrunches up her face (her ‘uggy-face’) and commences to writhe, kick and convulse as if she were the choreographer of the Broadway production of St. Vitas’ Dance – Supine Extraordinaire.  While gyrating and jactitating, she emits a cyclic composition of low, guttural growls and yelps that builds to a deafening crescendo of screams. 

She finishes each round with a piercing banshee wail that rises until only our canine friends can detect (and run from) it.  My eyes literally cross when she hits that certain note; after which, it takes me a moment to realize that her pitch has merely crossed over the audible human threshold, and that I haven’t actually been rendered deaf by my child.     

This tempest can go on for longer than TWO, FREAKIN’ HOURS

Usually, El Guapo and I take turns watching over her, facing the fury, making sure she doesn’t break a spastic, flailing arm or leg.  However, we are able to spell each other for only a few minutes at a time;  any longer than that inside her room, and there is the real danger of gouging out one’s very own eyes.  While ‘inside’, on the front line, one tends to consider the various ways in which a frilly pink barrette or Dora the Explorer could help one commit suicide.

When she’s in the throes, however, I never leave her side for longer than five or ten minutes; I’d kick myself in the ass if, while I was out of the room, her head spun around and she projectile-vomited all over her dad.  I just gotta be there for that.  (I do remove the crucifix from above her door on my way out though, just to be safe.) 

After so many years of these Wake-Rages, I have learned not to wake the whatsisnoozin!

My kid could freakin’ fall asleep on the porch in the dead ‘a winter, and I’d just toss the welcome mat over her and hope for the best.

Nope!  Not this one!  No matter what, SassyMama here don’t never wake no whatsisnoozin!

 

Can I get a ‘HELL’ to the ‘NO’?!

 

It ain’t worth the splittin’ headache! 

Late for work because the little fuckin’ whatsisnoozin’s still comatose? 

Who cares? 

Find a new freakin’ job! 

The Dingus, on the other hand, has not yet reached this conclusion; like Roy, he mistakenly believes he can actually tame his cute, little whatsisnoozin.

And you recall how well that worked out for him and Sigfried, don’t cha?

 

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