I am a fussy sleeper. I wish this wasn’t true. It’s a pain. It’s a pain for me and a pain for my sweet husband, I’m sure. When we were first married, I sort of had a little motto: I’m up, you’re up– but I’ve gotten a little better about letting him have his sleep while I lay there bitterly. And unfortunately, my sleeping trouble has only gotten worse over the years. I like total silence.  If my husband is snoring  breathing heavy, I politely tap him and ask him to roll over. The spring peepers out my window make me want to shoot myself.  Crickets don’t lull me to sleep- they mock me. If a child needs me in the night, I’m out of bed before they’ve finished calling out.

I also need total darkness. The street light outside my bedroom window is too bright. The lit numbers on my alarm clock are too bright, as well–even set on dim. My husband doesn’t understand this. “Aren’t your eyes closed? How could that be bothering you?”  Really! They are! But after laying there for a while, I get bored. I’ve tried a lot of the tricks–Tylenol PM works. Sometimes. Melatonin, not so much. Sleeping pills are too scary–they have a “sleep forever” connotation in my mind, so they’re out. I count backwards from 500. I talk to Jesus. I’ve tried counting sheep, but my sheep have this crazy habit of jumping over the fence and then circling around to get back in line and it makes me dizzy. Ridiculous. Completely.  I know. But when it’s midnight and I start the countdown to how many hours left until the alarm goes off, my brain does crazy things.

And so in my despair, I finally found a pretty decent solution: The Sleep Mask. Actually, let me rephrase– because it’s really not that pretty. It feels absurd. I’m sure it looks absurd but my  husband is too nice to say anything negative. He encourages the sleep mask. I’m sure he is as desperate for me to sleep as I am. Almost. It’s black and in fancy pink writing it says ‘Do Not Disturb.’ And really, if I’m asleep, don’t. So I’ve taken to calling myself The Super Sleeper when I’m wearing it. You know, sort of like a Super Hero. Super Sleeper. And part of the Super Sleeper mystique is this–it’s never actually on me, or at least covering my eyes, when I wake up in the morning. I have found it around my neck, under my pillow, on the floor, on my head like a head band. If I’m finally asleep, what on earth is going on? Who knows what feats I’m capable of while wearing the Super Sleeper Mask? (Although I must admit, earlier in the week, the Super Sleeper forgot to assume the Tooth Fairy role, and so Super Husband had to step in…oops. I was sleeping.)

So, if you’re having trouble sleeping, I highly recommend trying the mask. I had a white one first, but it was still too bright. I suggest the black. Again, my hubs can’t understand how this could be since my eyes are closed. And he still has yet to solve the mystery  that somehow, when the mask is on, many times, I still keep talking. Huh. Must be Super Sleeper special powers.

In my very first post, I introduced the name of my blog, “Truth is Stranger than Fiction”, and let me tell you,  I hit the blog material jackpot today. Really. Someone I know was very recently car-jacked. (That in and of itself is a bit of a phenomenon, isn’t it? ) Anyhow, her stolen car was consequently used in a bank robbery–which is also totally crazy. But here’s the part you could not make up– the bank robber was a 14- year- old girl. Yep. 14 years old. And all I could think when I heard this (after, of course, being appropriately horrified and sorry for my friend–who is okay, thank God), is that I really want to talk to this girl’s mother. But not for the reasons you might think. I try not to judge- really, I try. I mean, at the end of some very long days of motherhood, sometimes all you can say when your head hits that pillow is “well, no one’s in juvie. Or jail.”  I know– the craziness of the day when that’s my comfort is beyond pathetic– but be real- we’ve all been there.

So what I really want to ask her is this: How did you do it?  How did you raise a 14-year-old that is savvy and responsible enough to rob a bank? And apparently, this was not her first time, but her 4th time! That means 3 other times she didn’t get caught! I am as guilty as the next person for second-guessing my parenting skills– Am I  too hard or too soft? More rules, less freedom or more freedom less rules? Privileges, bed times, curfews, parties, sleepovers, sports, bad habits…I’ve struggled with the best of them.

It’s got to take A LOT of careful planning and a well-thought  out scheme to pull off a bank robbery, and I just want to pick her brain for some tips. Because here’s the thing: I have a child who is almost 20 and one who is almost 14– and let’s just say that neither of them, so far, appears to be “bank robber” material. Fabulous, loving, talented in many other ways, but hard to imagine them pulling off a gig like this one.  And #3 is still pretty underage as far as robbing a bank goes…but a mom can hold out hope, can’t she? (I have to be honest–it’s not very promising, so far, thanks in part to our fabulous Children’s Pastor at church. Sigh.)

Just this morning I reminded one of them that their retainer was sitting on the kitchen table. I sometimes have to ask if people have taken showers and used deodorant. I discover overdue library material. I find money, iPods, keys, ATM cards. Dishes are left on the table, chores are ‘forgotten’, the dog goes hungry >Insert Big Sigh Here< Where have I gone wrong? I mean, I’m not advocating or making light of a life of crime– but the poker face alone, required for such a task would likely disqualify my kids. One of them would have far too many sketchy facial expressions, nervous throat clearing and “umms”, while the other one would be on her knees praying for forgiveness while the money was still hot.

What’s a mom to do? So that’s all I want. Just a little insight and direction on how she managed to raise a 14-year-old who is able to carry out such a meticulous (and three times successful) plan. Of course I’ll have to navigate just how much I put to use.  I’ll  have to draw the line somewhere, I’m sure. After all, she does have someone in jail tonight and I, thankfully, do not.  So for today, I will cut my kids some slack. I must be doing  a few things right.

My name is Julie and I love coffee. I have loved coffee for a long time. I
resist calling it an addiction because that would make it seem like a bad
thing. And it’s not. Coffee is a very happy part of my life. I take that
first sip in the morning (the first sip is the best) and I look at my day
and think, ‘I can do this.’
Several months ago I became enamored by the Keurig coffee maker. The
thought of a hot cup of coffee in under 60 seconds when I stumble down to
the kitchen in the morning was totally luxurious- no measuring coffee
and water, no messy grounds–and best of all, no waiting. And since they
haven’t yet created the coffee i.v. drip, this seems like a close second.

My husband, however, did not share my excitement. I probably don’t even
have to say here that clearly, he is not a coffee drinker. “You don’t
really need one of those” was his standard response every time I said I
wanted a Keurig. The nerve! Why would he NOT think I need one?? I would
bristle. I was sure I most certainly did need one. But, I would just
inwardly smirk and think, “Hhmph. I’m gonna get me one of those
sometime!”
One day not long ago, my day of poetic justice came. It was so gratifying
it couldn’t have gone better if I had planned it. My husband is part of a
re-enactment group and collects Revolutionary War era replicas of clothing
and primitive camping and war items. We happened to be chatting and he
said…Ready for this? “I’d really like to get a black powder rifle.” Come
again? Hello, trump card! A black powder rifle? As in a Revolutionary War era black powder rifle that costs ten times the price of a Keurig coffee
maker? My, my, my. How the tables have turned.
I could hardly contain myself. Steady. Steady now. Go slow. Don’t be
hasty. Your coffee dreams are hanging in the balance here. “Oh really
now. Would you? Huh. That’s interesting.” A smile was slowly spreading
across his face. I think he was on to me. “It seems to me,” I said as
sweetly as I could, “that you ‘need’ a black powder rifle” the same way I
‘need’ a Keurig.”
What could he really say? I have to admit I felt a teeny bit proud of
myself. Slam. Dunk. And what do you know? Happy Mother’s Day to me! I’m
now the proud owner of a Keurig coffee maker. It doesn’t matter that I
went out and bought it. It is every bit as dreamy as I knew it would be.
My husband seems just fine with it- happy, even. He must know Father’s Day
is coming.