The other night Zoë was yelling from her room, with great disgust, "No! Rachel! Stop it!" before tapering off into incomprehensible mumblings.
Eerily enough, in the morning, Miriam disclosed to me that Rachel had been yelling at Zoë in her sleep. "Cut it out, Zoë..." she grunted.
Too funny, these kids!
Late on Monday evening, I heard a bunch of noise downstairs, but Andrew was down there so I didn't think to check it out. Besides, I was being held hostage in Alexander's doorway, waiting for him to fall asleep for the second time that evening.
Andrew, likewise, figured it was me puttering around...until he went to see what I was up to and noticed some odd evidence left behind.
He padded up the stairs and when he saw where I was—lying in Alexander's doorway reading a book—he whispered, "Did you get yourself a bowl of cereal?"
"No," I said. "I've just been here."
"Weird," he said. "Someone got a bowl of cereal. I thought it was you making all that noise."
"Huh. I thought it was you."
Alexander was just about out at this point so I slithered away from his room and followed Andrew downstairs. There was a box of cereal on the table along with a container of almond milk—as well as the little plastic milk from opening the milk for the first time (so this person had been super dedicated and had gone out to the garage fridge to fetch a new carton of milk)—on the table. They'd also spilled—and left—a bit of milk.
There was a bowl and a spoon in the sink.
"It must have been Rachel," Andrew said. "That's where she usually sits for breakfast."
In my dinner spot. Because that makes sense.
(Maybe she wishes she could be me).
We sneaked down to her room to see if she was awake and although she was in bed trying hard to be asleep she was, in fact, very much awake and we all had a good laugh about how she'd woken up at midnight and—for whatever reason—thought it was 7:00 in the morning and started getting ready for her day.
The funny part is, she'd already texted me to admit to her mistake (I just didn't see the texts because I didn't have my phone with me) so we went down to her room for nothing (except for to laughat with her).
Once a bad sleeper, always a bad sleeper, I guess.
Side note: a friend of mine posted a meme today that said, "It's up to us to break generational curses. When they say: 'it runs in the family,' you tell them: 'and this is where it runs out,'" and I have to say, I've been wondering about that all day.
Like, does that bit of advice apply solely to abuse? Because I feel like that's the only place it would be applicable. Everything else that I can think of where I'd say something runs in the family is, like, legitimately heritable.
If someone comments on my toe thumbs, for example, I can really only say, "Thanks, they run in the family." Because what other option do I have? I mean, I suppose I could chop them off—this ends now, thumbs—but then...I'd still pass on those genes so at the end of the day, toe thumbs persevere.
Depression can be genetic. You can treat it, you can deal with it, you don't have to let it rule your life (not entirely)...but can you really just say, "This is where it runs out"?
Anyway, I think about that like sleep as well. Like, do I really have the power to say, "Poor sleeping ends here"?
I almost wrote "poor sleeping habits end here," which perhaps means that at the very root of things I believe all my poor sleepers are my fault. That surely stems from everyone telling me that if I'd "just" do A, B, or C my babies would sleep beautifully. But honestly what I believe is that sleeping habits are a myth. I believe: you can put a child to bed but you can't make them sleep. Because, trust me, I've tried. A lot.
And all I can say is...it runs in the family...
Eerily enough, in the morning, Miriam disclosed to me that Rachel had been yelling at Zoë in her sleep. "Cut it out, Zoë..." she grunted.
Too funny, these kids!
Late on Monday evening, I heard a bunch of noise downstairs, but Andrew was down there so I didn't think to check it out. Besides, I was being held hostage in Alexander's doorway, waiting for him to fall asleep for the second time that evening.
Andrew, likewise, figured it was me puttering around...until he went to see what I was up to and noticed some odd evidence left behind.
He padded up the stairs and when he saw where I was—lying in Alexander's doorway reading a book—he whispered, "Did you get yourself a bowl of cereal?"
"No," I said. "I've just been here."
"Weird," he said. "Someone got a bowl of cereal. I thought it was you making all that noise."
"Huh. I thought it was you."
Alexander was just about out at this point so I slithered away from his room and followed Andrew downstairs. There was a box of cereal on the table along with a container of almond milk—as well as the little plastic milk from opening the milk for the first time (so this person had been super dedicated and had gone out to the garage fridge to fetch a new carton of milk)—on the table. They'd also spilled—and left—a bit of milk.
There was a bowl and a spoon in the sink.
"It must have been Rachel," Andrew said. "That's where she usually sits for breakfast."
In my dinner spot. Because that makes sense.
(Maybe she wishes she could be me).
We sneaked down to her room to see if she was awake and although she was in bed trying hard to be asleep she was, in fact, very much awake and we all had a good laugh about how she'd woken up at midnight and—for whatever reason—thought it was 7:00 in the morning and started getting ready for her day.
The funny part is, she'd already texted me to admit to her mistake (I just didn't see the texts because I didn't have my phone with me) so we went down to her room for nothing (except for to laugh
Once a bad sleeper, always a bad sleeper, I guess.
Side note: a friend of mine posted a meme today that said, "It's up to us to break generational curses. When they say: 'it runs in the family,' you tell them: 'and this is where it runs out,'" and I have to say, I've been wondering about that all day.
Like, does that bit of advice apply solely to abuse? Because I feel like that's the only place it would be applicable. Everything else that I can think of where I'd say something runs in the family is, like, legitimately heritable.
If someone comments on my toe thumbs, for example, I can really only say, "Thanks, they run in the family." Because what other option do I have? I mean, I suppose I could chop them off—this ends now, thumbs—but then...I'd still pass on those genes so at the end of the day, toe thumbs persevere.
Depression can be genetic. You can treat it, you can deal with it, you don't have to let it rule your life (not entirely)...but can you really just say, "This is where it runs out"?
Anyway, I think about that like sleep as well. Like, do I really have the power to say, "Poor sleeping ends here"?
I almost wrote "poor sleeping habits end here," which perhaps means that at the very root of things I believe all my poor sleepers are my fault. That surely stems from everyone telling me that if I'd "just" do A, B, or C my babies would sleep beautifully. But honestly what I believe is that sleeping habits are a myth. I believe: you can put a child to bed but you can't make them sleep. Because, trust me, I've tried. A lot.
And all I can say is...it runs in the family...
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