Puke & Rally

Back in my early 20’s, I spent a couple of years spreading my wings and exploring the world around me. I was single, I was newly thin and I had the alcohol tolerance of a baby giraffe. My soldier brother was preparing for a deployment to Iraq, so he and I spent a good month dancing and hanging out together, his incredibly patient and go-with-the-flow wife always at the ready with a cold washcloth or Tylenol. Since she was also under 21 at the time, most of our “we won’t get to do this again for a long time” parties happened at home. (My sister-in-law was, and remains today, the best wingman in the history of the world. If you’re sad, sick or even just hungover, trust me… you want Amber there with you.)

One memorable evening, I was at my brother’s place with several of his Army friends. I learned a valuable lesson that night: never let a soldier talk you into doing shots. If you don’t die, you’ll surely wish you had the next day. I was down for the count before the second song had ended, and I went to lay down with a bowl on my brother’s couch. My sister-in-law brought me a cold washcloth for my head and as I was lying there begging God to just take me now, my brother came over to plead with me to keep on going. He said a phrase that became our mantra, even today.

“C’mon sissy. All my friends are here. Time to puke and rally.”

Puke and rally. In other words: suck it up, Buttercup. Keep going. No matter how bad it feels, no matter how bad the room spins, put on your dancing shoes and move.

Puke and rally is a family phrase in my house these days. It has absolutely nothing to do with alcohol because ain’t nobody got time for a hangover with tiny humans around. In my life, puke and rally is all about sleep deprivation. I read a study on Facebook this morning that said people my age (read: OLD) need 7 to 9 hours of sleep each night. And I actually guffawed out loud because that’s pretty close to my combined total hours of sleep from Monday through Friday. Seven to nine HOURS? EVERY NIGHT?!? Pshaw, man. Someone do one of these studies for parents.

My boys are the Antisleep, which is the fifth horseman of the Apocalypse. Noodle and Roo haven’t slept through the night at the same time since birth, and I’m not kidding. They routinely wake up and start their day around 4am. We have tried probably a hundred different solutions – nothing works. It doesn’t matter what time they go to bed, what they eat, whether or not they nap. It’s not a discipline issue. Benadryl makes them insanely hyper and I would hand out Melatonin like gummy bears if it actually worked. They just have some internal switch that flips and IT. IS. ON. The boys are old enough now that they can go downstairs and entertain themselves quietly for a bit, but one of the parents is routinely up and battening down the hatches by 5am daily. The fifth horseman of the Apocalypse rides double on a horse that sings “Old Town Road” at top volume 357 times in a row before the sun has risen. But not the whole song… Just the chorus.

I’d like to go on record with a formal apology to naps, because I spent the first thirty years of my life declaring that I didn’t need them. Currently, if naps were a person, I’d kiss them full on the mouth and beg them to marry me. I would woo and wow them until they adopted all five of my children and made me a hot toddy. Naps would lead me by the hand to a darkened room with some Jim Brickman playing softly in the background and whisper, “Stay as long as you need to.” Oh, Naps. How I love you.

I can’t decide if my sons are secretly employed by Starbucks and using their wiles to drive up stock prices or if they were hired by the North Koreans to conduct experiments on the limits of sleep deprivation. It’s been a stressful couple of weeks and my anxiety and insomnia are typically doing a Jazzercise routine in my brain until midnight. Sunday night, between my crazy brain and my crazier sons, I managed a full 45 minutes of sleep. Last night was a bit better – I’m pretty sure I got close to three hours altogether. I make it through the day because my mama didn’t raise no quitter and because coffee is delicious.

So look, Facebook study. Seven to nine hours a night is for wimps. I see your 7-9 hours and raise you two sets of twins and five hours on the phone with insurance companies and doctors offices. I’ll even throw in a home cooked meal and seventeen loads of laundry.

Puke and rally, man. Puke and rally.