Seems like tonight this morning is a repeat of last night yesterday morning. Oh wait. That’s because it is.
A full bladder, a bed hog restless three year old climbing up and over me to find his comfy place, racing thoughts and vivid dreams (compliments of Zoloft), and a grumbling stomach all work together to force me from my warm and cozy bed. On the up side, as I lie there, trying to ignore the bladder and brain, I feel a sweet little kiss on the back of my head, and am forced to smile. I play possum, under the assumption that pretending to sleep and ignoring the child will make him give up trying to talk to me and return to the land of nod. Even though I want to face him and snuggle him and sing Twinkle Twinkle Wittle Stah and Bitsy Bitsy Spidah with him. Eventually it works. For him. But I give in to the physical forces at hand, and find myself at my computer in the middle of the night.
I’ve been craving milk, and I’m generally not a milk drinker (except in coffee and tea). It’s very satisfying, but after one glass, I want more. I think it wakens the carbohydrate-addicted monster.
Compounding the frustration of being awake at such an hour, knowing that this interlude will wreak havoc with the day to come, the computer is excruciatingly slow, working its way through its nightly virus scan. I’m tempted to turn off the virus scan, but caution prevails and I stumble along at a snail’s pace.
I’ve begun to notice some hormonal sensitivities. Smell aversions, actually. My MIL made a cabbage patch soup for Mr. Gadget’s birthday lunch get-together, and I almost wanted to leave the house, it smelled so awful to me! I’ve had that soup before and liked it, but could barely tolerate even a few bites. Worse, she made a giant batch that took up two stock pots. There were only about five of us there, so it was clear that we’d be coming home with leftovers. To my utter dismay. I told Mr. Gadget that he was on his own this time, with full responsibility for leftover consumption.
The other odd one is chicken soup. I recently made chicken stock and then a nice batch of chicken and vegetable soup (carrots, celery, onion, kidney beans, tomatoes, corn — sort of a minestrone) but the smell of simmering chicken seems to have permeated the house and lingered for days. I could even smell it in the dishwasher, after multiple loads have been washed. I could smell it in my CPAP hose and mask, for crying out loud. At least, I imagined that I could. It was bad enough that it forced me from my bed last night. I couldn’t stand the thought of breathing chicken infused forced air for another moment, let alone a full night. Now it smells faintly of bleach, but I prefer that to chicken.
Mostly I crave milk and bread. I’d love to have a big warm hearty loaf slice of artisan bread (with butter!) and a glass of milk. Not so good for diabetes control, but it sure sounds good.
