The Dishwasher

Sashimi has never been a great sleeper.  Night wakings, night terrors, you name it.  He's had it.

For the first two months of school, Sashimi sleepwalked every night, usually within 90 minutes of going to bed.  He would mutter about school, call out to his friends, sometimes throw a tantrum, but it was all in his sleep, and he never remembered it the next morning. Once his slumber shenanigans were done, he would often just end up walking back into his bedroom and putting himself back to sleep.

For the past few weeks, he has not been sleepwalking.  I figure he must have gotten this whole GRADE ONE thing figured out and realized that he doesn't have to be the superhero, rescuing all children from the evils of RULE BREAKING (gasp!) and TATTLING. Or, worse of all, the YOU'RE NOT MY FRIEND ANYMORE! Our little mediator was always trying to defend people and get his little glasses caught in the middle of other people's problems, and would take this to his sleep and then fight the evildoers in our livingroom.  But not the past few weeks. The first grade must have signed a peace treaty, or a cease-fire of some type.  No worries at home, no friends being subjected to the tortures of illwanted desk partners or misappopriated pencils. No sleepwalking.

Enter Santa Claus Parade. Sashimi had a friend join him.  They were hyper as speedheads, running all over the blocked-off streets, climbing up poor Charlie Brown trees, and generally being terrible shits. Funny, cuz if Santa really paid attention at the parade, most of those kids would be getting big lumps of coal in their stocking.  But Santa was in a big rush this year.  Hardly even a wave.  Pfft. Snobby Santa. Anyway, add all the candy that kids get at a parade from otherwise sane adults, and VOILÀ! WE HAVE A SLEEPWALKER! SASHIMI PENGIUN-MASTER, COME ON DOWN!!!

He walks into the kitchen. He opens the pantry door.  He pauses for a minute, then closes the door.  He walks toward the fridge.  I assume he's hungry. He opens the dishwasher.  Then I hear the sound of liquid hitting plastic.  HOLY. MOTHER. OF. SUCROSE.  My kid is PISSING in my dishwasher.  And pissing.  And still pissing.  And peeing.  And peeing.  And pissing.  And finally stopping.  No, wait.  He starts up again.  Still peeing! Dribble. Dribble.  Stop. He turns around, heads out of the kitchen, puts himself back to bed.

Tony picks himself up off the floor from trying to control his laughter.  He looks into the dishwasher.  Frickin kid filled the entire lid with pee. So.  Close the lid, WHOOOSH. Pee in the dishwasher, not on the floor.  Immediately run a rinse cycle, cuz EW. I know if you have no antiseptic you can use urine on a cut, but I'm not really liking the idea of sterilizing my dishes with pee.

But I can rest assured knowing that my dishwasher lid is sparkly clean. And that my son will probably disown me when he figures out that I told everyone on the internet that he peed in our dishwasher. But I figure that's a few years off...

Calling all Nerds. HEY YOU!

Back to work: check.
Back into a workout routine: check
Building up fab guns and pecs: check.
Realization that working my pecs will make my saggy boobs stick out more: check
Realization that between work, working out, keeping the kids alive and our house non-condemned, my exciting life as a prestigious socialite is passé: check.

Worse than all that, that one teaching day, which in teacherland is actually a day plus a half day of prep, really threw off my knitting-TV groove. I was so proud that I finally subscribed to HBO and Movie Central aka Showtime and looking forward to many hours of joys with my TV, needles and stash. And I have not watched it ONCE. In two months, never. Why? I am sooooo awesome that I either a) fall asleep in kid's bed while putting them to sleep, b) crawl out of kid's bedroom and directly into my bed, c) play Angry Birds Star Wars, or d) am a gimp. I apparently also love paying $21/month for something I don't use. Totally rocks my world. You should try it. If you don't want to do that, you could alternately take a twenty dollar bill, light a match, hold the match close enough to the money for it to catch fire, then let it burn. Not long enough that you burn your fingers. You go to the ER, they ask you "how did you burn yourself" and you say "I was burning money" the doctor will prescribe you some crazy pills instead of burn ointment.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, my groove.

It's gone. I have no time to knit, have tea in fancy tea cups and raise my finger and pip pip cheerio, no time to watch expensive cable channels, no time to shovel the driveway...hum hum hum...all because of that one day.
So. If anyone manages to find a way to open the time-space continuum and give me either one extra hour each day, preferably when the kids are asleep and I am NOT, or stick an extra 8 hours into the weekend, I would appreciate it. I would appreciate it in the amount of one MILLIONNN dollars! And once you have that figured out, if you could just inject some coffee right into that continuum so that I could stay AWAKE for those extra hours, bonus millionsies for you, my friend.

In conclusion, my inner sloth would like you nerd-types to solve this time-space problem post haste. That means yesterday. Then I can go back in time and actually have time to get into Downton Abby. Because everyone tells me how fabulous it is, and I have the channels and everything, but I have no freaking time to watch it! And then I may resort to burning $20 just to go to the ER to get crazy pills.
So, anyone want to get on that?
The time thing, not the pills. Thanks.