Pool of Drool

 I love waking up in a pool of drool. Right? First thought: I really nailed that REM sleep. What did I do to earn this river of wetness on my cheek? Did I beat Roger Federer in tennis? Did I run a few eight-minute miles? Maybe I painted and wall papered the entire apartment and have no memory of it. More than likely, it was something as mundane as doing that extra load of laundry that exhausted me.

I'm sure when this happens to you, like for me, you think: Wait! Is this a sea of saliva that has me stuck to the bedding or did I get stabbed in the middle of the night? Could this be my blood bubbling out of me onto my freshly laundered, crisp white sheets? Sheet! I mean Shit! 

I do a few concentrated breaths. I slowly move my limbs and joints: finger, toe, elbow, ankle. I feel quite good. I'm pretty confident I've gone off the deep end with this blood idea.  Without even opening my eyes, I dismiss the theory that my husband stabbed me a little in the middle of the night because of the medium-rare chicken cutlets I served for supper. (He spent most of the night in the bathroom, so I don't think he had much strength left.) Full disclosure here, I watch a lot of Law and Order and Happy Valley.

As I lie here a couple more minutes, the wetness kinda starts to gross me out. Ick--my spit slithering all up and down my cheek and temple, even coating some of my eye lashes and a few strands of hair. (I am talking serious REM!) I pull my face off the pillowcase, swipe my hand on the wet mess and caress my husband's side of the bed. Lucky for him, he's not there. 

I just changed the bedding yesterday. I'm not doing it again--and I'm not mixing different sheets with different pillowcases! Don't even go there! I eye the dry pillowcase on the other side of the bed. What the hell! A quick switcheroo, saliva side up so it dries in the next 16 hours and he'll never know (unlike the cutlets last night). Note to you solo sleepers: If you can't stand the thought of laying your head on a pillowcase that was drenched in your drool, simply turn it over. By nighttime, the spittle scenario will be long forgotten and you won't see the slight tell-tale sign of dried spit that resembles a Rorschach ink blot. 

I can't help but think of when my children were babies. They drooled when they were happy. They drooled when they cried. They drooled while having a fitful night's sleep. I guess they pretty much drooled all the time. 

Lying here in bed, all damp and cozy, I like to think I just channeled my inner-infant. And I think that's a good thing. 

Now to get up and go downstairs. Hey, maybe I really did wallpaper the apartment.

Mano a Mano

 "Hey Tam, BTW: Your mother and I are thinking of having a fourth kid. I know you've been Baby of the Family for over twelve years, but just wanted to keep you in the loop, maybe hear your thoughts on number four?"

Let it be known--this conversation NEVER, ever happened in my household growing up! And it should have, right? This "event" would affect me as much as my parents, kinda? I mean sure, I'd be out of the house at college when it would be five years old, but still! 

I have it on good authority that I excelled as Baby of the Family. I pitched fits when appropriate, I pranced around when entertainment was needed. I STEPPED up to the plate, let me tell you. And then the bombshell. Not the conversation that started this blog, but this male creature being brought into my home, January 1974. I suspect Christmas '73 was so traumatic, trying to imagine how my life would change, that I have squashed it down, deep inside, to fester there after. I'm sure Santa Claus didn't give me a Baby Doll Poops-A-Lot since the real thing was lurking in my very near future. I'm assuming my mom was a bit distracted, as well.

When this baby turned one, he knew how to work my last nerve. I'll share a prime example. I was sitting on the floor in our large, horseshoe-shaped kitchen. I am busy digging around the lower cabinets, searching for who knows what on my mother's instructions. I was either looking for a jelly roll pan, loaf pan, cookie sheet, pie tins, 13x9 cake pan, muffin tins or Bundt cake pan. Suddenly, I am being assaulted. A meaty fist nudges my shoulder blade.

"Hey, cool it!" I advise. I know what you're thinking. He's one. You're 13. Keep in mind, I am sitting on my butt, so we are essentially the same height. Hence: Mano a Mano. I turned slightly and nail his big brown doe eyes cloaked with eyelashes that should only exist on a Holstein calf or super model with my hazel-eyed gaze. He giggles.

"Watch it," I warn.

He's munching away on his latest obsession--a balled-up slice of Wonder white bread. He giggles again and smacks me on the shoulder. Now keep in mind, I am juggling seven different types of bakeware--okay??

And yet, one more tap in where I believe my kidneys are (what do I know, I'm 13) and I turn abruptly and maybe my elbow accidentally punches him in the mouth area. Well, a dios mio you'd have thought I took a bite out of his leg. My mother, who is at the kitchen sink, elbow-deep in dirty dishwater, yells at me and runs over with a dripping, wet dishrag to this shrieking being because she sees a little blood. Never mind, the rag is soapy and disgusting from dirty dishes AND I'm concerned about my kidneys!

"His tooth! You knocked out his only tooth!"

"I did not!" I shriek, though I did spy something white mixed in with that gross mixture of blood, snot and saliva. "It's just a piece of that bread he shoved into his mouth!" I didn't really believe my story, but I had to buy myself some time. I had to convince my mother that I was the victim. I mean, that's what we, as humans do, when we are cornered. Protect ourselves! Fight back!

As Mom is mopping up his face, like it was a dirty pot from the stove, this little assault machine is spitting blood and soapy bubbles at me, I spy his perfectly good, chiclet tooth. We had all been so excited about that little thing a few weeks ago when it pushed its way over his swollen, disgusting gum--like it was the second coming of Christ!

"Hey Mom, where are my baby teeth?" I asked the day his tooth monumentally emerged.

Her eyes kinda glazed over with my query.  "Mmm, they might have been tossed out to the chickens...or maybe that was your tonsils?" (We are clearly not a sentimental bunch.)

As I write this, I know it's true. Let me explain. At the supper table, there were two piles of left-over food scraps: one for the cats and dog (chicken bones and skin), the other for chickens (corn cobs). It just seems to make sense that this is where my spare parts ended up, as well. I'm sure as a 13-year-old, cannibalism wasn't on my radar, but now I've seen plenty of National Geographics about the Borneo tribes to be slightly well-versed!

We all know how the food chain works, so yes, a chicken ate my teeth and/or tonsils. Two weeks later, Mom butchers said chicken and fries it up for Sunday dinner. Bon appetit. I am a cannibal. (Well, a cannibal, once removed, if one must get technical.)

Had my elbow smack been a bit more on target, my little brother could have had a similar (but less interesting) story. I would have aided him in cutting out the middle man, in this case, the chicken. He could have touted himself as a toddler cannibal had I successfully dislodged his tooth and he'd have swallowed it.

I do digress a bit. But here I tie it all together. My 6'2" little brother may have usurped my role as Baby of the Family, but I hold the title of Resident Cannibal in our house.

Thanks Mommy, for treating me special!!