The Attack of The Haze
You know how that dirt-prone boy from the Peanuts cartoon strip, Pig-Pen, lives in a cloud of his own filth? That’s how I envision myself these days. Only instead of dirt, I live in a haze of exhaustion.
Okay, yes, dirt too. (Thank you for pointing that out.)
I naively thought I would perk up when I finally put the baby in daycare for a few hours a day. Now, am I more balanced? Sure. Happier? I must admit: yes. But more well-rested…? Ha. If anything, the exhaustion has gotten worse. Imagine my surprise when The Haze started showing up in pictures:
Just look at my poor children! Obviously terrified of The Haze.
And it’s no wonder. The Haze is responsible for making their mother act strangely. Yes, even more so than usual. (Again, thank you for pointing that out.) It is not uncommon for me to be half-way to daycare when I suddenly turn around in my seat, heart pounding through my chest, because OMIGOD, DID I REMEMBER TO PUT THE BABY IN THE CAR?
Thank goodness the answer has always been YES. So far. But my biggest fear is leaving Drew sitting in the garage and screaming, “CURSE YOU, HAAAAAAZE!”
I also can’t tell you how many times I have been standing in line at Starbucks when I’m struck with this thought: Uh, I should probably look down and make sure I put my boobs away after the baby’s last breastfeeding session.
I wish I could say the answer has always been YES.
You would think I would double-check such important things before leaving the house, but here is the thing about The Haze: it makes you stupid. I am so tired, I cannot see or think straight. Logic and forethought and thoughtfulness… huh? Hence the boob show in front of Starbucks’ pastry case.
All moms live in their own version of The Haze, I think, with varying amounts of cloudiness and ill effects. My mom claims her haze didn’t lift until I graduated from college. Which would make me cry… if only I had the energy to produce tears.
My personal haze started hatching when I was pregnant with Miss Skye (’08 – ’09) and had problems sleeping; however, it wasn’t until just lately — after almost seven months of living with a baby who only sleeps for three hours at a time — that The Haze billowed to the point of taking over my life.
I respond to texts and Tweets and Twats three days late. I don’t return friends’ calls for months because, let’s face it, holding a conversation takes too much energy. I have squirted face cream on my toothbrush. And continued to brush, even after realizing, because at least my cuspids won’t get crow’s feet. I walk all the way up to our third floor to grab my glasses, only to return downstairs without them. Several times in a row. And sex? Puh-lease. If I’m going to be doing anything in that bed, it’s sleep. (Fun fact: Men are never too tired to have sex. Never.)
Even if this Haze does lift someday, I’m afraid I will have no friends or family waiting for me on the other side. Because the only people who understand, who truly understand, are other moms — who are stuck in their own fog and unable to go grab a “Farewell, Haze!” margarita with me.
I guess I could always attract new friends by putting on another boob show at Starbucks, if need be. The toothless man stealing their Splenda packets really seemed to take a liking to me!