Bedtime

I'm sleeping in Em's bd tonight. She woke up when I came in to turn off her night lamp, and was shivery and sick to her stomach, so I put her upstairs in my bed with Baroy. (Lest I be accused of selfishness, let the record show that Baroy absolutely refuses to be the one to sleep in the kids' beds--not out of any unusual amount of nurturing, but because he finds their beds extremely uncomfortable. And so, if I want Em where any problems in the night can be readily detected, I have to leave her to Baroy, whose ability to wake up and hear her is variable. In other words, I'd rather be there than here. Well, except for the fact that Em kicks and moves and talks when she sleeps. I won't miss that.)

It's weird to sleep down here. This may be my/Baroy's house, but this is Em's room. It's not that I've never spent time in here, but rather that I don't really feel like I belong. I don't feel comfortable. (Not to mention the Hilary Duff calendar above my head. She's dressed kinda slutty, and I don't like having her stare down at me. This is what I put my daughter to sleep beneath each night? I must be crazy.)

Sheesh. I'm having some nasty PMS this month. One of my friends has been talking about her current journey through menopause. She's totally despondent about it, but all I can think is that if with the loss of estrogen comes the settling down of these monthly mood/patience/anxiety swings, bring it on. No time like the present.

Ugh. The corners of this room need sweeping/vacuuming. Badly.

Both cats have followed me in here. This is going to be one crowded twin bed.

The guinea pig's cage stinks. It needs cleaning something fierce.

A week from Friday is my last day in the office. Adios, dudes.