We finally watched Gravity last night!
So, now I am suffering from PTSD.
I spent the entire movie sweating and holding my breath. Sandra Bullock and I nearly passed out simultaneously.
Forget about sequestration. If NASA wanted to end their space program they could’ve just shown aspiring astronauts that movie.
After spending 91 minutes pumped up on adrenaline all I wanted to do was go to sleep.
I am reading my book, about to drift off to peaceful images of Palisades Park in the 50’s when I hear Huck screaming.
I ignore it.
His cries become more plaintive.
They get louder.
Finally, I go to his room and find him wrapped up in his blanket like a cocoon, his hair soaked in sweat.
My first guess is he just had a nightmare about being in a full nelson with a cuddly dude in a fuzzy blanket covered in choo choo trains.
Like this….
… inside this.
I rub his back and remain half-asleep, hoping he’ll soon join me.
But, the crying won’t stop.
I offer him water.
No reaction, wailing louder.
At this point, I start trying to find the little marble he went to bed with. He uses it like a security blanket. (I’m telling you, the kid is OBSESSED with balls)
I nearly have a panic attack considering the possibility that this ball is at the bottom of his stomach instead of just stuck under the mattress.
I say this to my husband who stomps groggily into the room and says grumpily, “I’ll take care of him.”
I repeat my concern about the missing marble and and am greeted with a cranky glare.
So, I go back to bed to keep reading. It will take me another 20 minutes to fall asleep again.
As I finally feel my eyes getting dry from the tired, I hear a loud thud followed by a high-pitched whinnying cry.
Artax is not dying in the swamp of sadness in Alma’s room.
Alma has fallen off the bed again. I get her tucked back in.
Sleep eludes me for the next hour, like my brain is preparing for the possibility that I will have to rush to save my shrieking children from a burning building ANY SECOND.
My husband found our daughter sleeping on the floor of her bedroom this morning. I guess those pool noodles really aren’t effective “guard rails.”
My daughter uses them like hurdles.
Weakened by the horrors of my night, I spilled raw sugar all over the counter, floor and Alma while making coffee.
I spilled refried beans on my shirt.
As I scramble to get out of the door, Alma says, “I have to go poo poo.”
ARRRRRRRGGGGGHHHH
I kiss my son goodbye, him ducking to see Tom and Jerry around my head.
I kiss my husband who looks miserable. (or maybe it’s the mustache)
I kiss my daughter, who smiles sweetly but doesn’t even say goodbye.
Then I hit traffic on the way to work and arrive with an extra dose of PTSD to start the day.
(My apologies to anyone who actually suffers from PTSD. Clearly, I am exaggerating and it is a serious disorder which I do not suffer from)
Living The American Scream 
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