Thursday, February 9, 2012
Some people get night sweats.
Some people get night terrors.
Me? I get Night Bitch.
In the past, this condition expressed itself when Jeff needed to go to the hospital at 3 am, or when he tried to move me after I'd fallen asleep on the couch.
That was nothing. Acute Night Bitch sets in when you have a baby.
The first few weeks I was so sleep-deprived that I didn't get bitchy, I just wept. It was pathetic: me, in my giant postpartum "diaper" constructed from a jumbo sanitary napkin and mesh underpants, wailing along with my crying infant.
But now I enjoy a good three to four hours of sleep at a stretch--TRY NOT TO BE JEALOUS--and so when I'm awakened I am less sad and more petulant.
"The baby's awake," Jeff will whisper.
Swimming up from the depths of my new-mom slumber, I cannot comprehend this sentence. "NO HE'S NOT. HE CAN'T BE AWAKE. I JUST PUT HIM DOWN." (I use my angry Judge Judy voice.)
"Well, sorry, he is..."
"BAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. FUCK. FUUUUUUUUUUUCK. FUCK EVERYTHING."
"I think he's hungry."
"NO, HE'S NOT. YOU'RE BEING AN ASSHOLE."
Last night, I decided to add a little Naomi Campbell flair to the proceedings by repeatedly smashing my phone into the nightstand. In my defense, I was tired and I couldn't read the screen and so I thought it was broken. And to fix it, I thought maybe trying to hit it against something really hard might help.
As you might imagine, for Jeff I am only a MILF in the sense that he would like to fire me.