Every night I switch off the light, close my eyes, and make attempts of peace in harmony in my subconscious. I visualize lemon meringue pie and pink bunnies, and how amazing it would be to have bouncy, shiny hair. I visualize Jason Bateman in a speedo, and street tacos, and drinking Prosecco in Union Square.
But as soon as I drift off into sleep, I have an anxiety attack.
My body becomes an angry, dark place and all my muscles clench up like a butt-hole at a proctology appointment. My fists ball up, my spine becomes a crocked disaster, and my jaw gets insanly sore. It’s like my body is telling me, I hate sleep, and I don’t want to do it, no sir, I don’t.
And then my mind chimes in and says, you dumb-ass, sleeping is the most magnificent gift. It’s glorious, and it’s the one thing I look forward to all day. Stop F-ing this up for me!
And thus, a war is waged.
When I wake up in the morning, I’m like, what the crap? Why do my teeth hurt? Why is my arm all the way over there, that doesn’t seem natural. And why can’t I look left anymore?
I can deal with a sore body. That’s fine. I can do yoga or stretch to work the kinks out (although I never do). But my mouth is another story.
The teeth thing really bothers me, I have dreams of my teeth shattering and crumbling into pieces. Like those sugar sculpting tv shows on the Food Network. You know where they spend 8 hours making a 5-foot piñata out of delicate pink and blue sugar, and then they have to move the thing 20 inches in front of them to have it judged, and the whole thing shatters, and everyone is like, “OH SHIT!” but honestly, we all knew it was coming. Because it’s a piñata, made of sugar.
So, yeah. My mouth is like the shows on Food Network.
And my teeth are poorly built sugar piñatas.
I used to have a mouth-gaurd that I’d wear at night, but it mysteriously disappeared. I’m not positive, but all signs point to my dog eating it. The recent dry hacking, coupled with her repulsive ability to eat anything, especially if it’s thickly coated in my morning drool, was what ultimately tipped me off.
Thanks Zoey, now all my teeth are going to fall out, and it’s all your fault.
Plus, you owe me 400 dollars. Bitch.
**Totally unrelated note, Zoey doesn’t mind that I call her a bitch, because technically speaking, she is one.
So, why is my mouth so stressed out?
Or, better question, why am I so stressed out?
My life is pretty awesome. I don’t have a schedule that I have to adhere to, and my kids are so frickin’ rad. Seriously, have you met them? You need to, they’re amazing.
I get to do practically anything I want, which means my days are filled with going to the beach, the pool, and the mall, and hanging out with my best friends.
Although, I do touch a lot of poo within a given day, and I get yelled at by both my baby and 3-year-old, and on really special occasions, my mom. I usually have Hudson sitting on my left hip, so that I’m free to dole out snacks for Berlyn with my right hand. I am constantly cleaning up paint, play-doh, and Golden Puffs, meanwhile, my boob is in my baby’s mouth. Oh, and speaking of my boobs, they have lost all discretion, and have been spotted by 3 of my neighbors and at least 4 Container Store employees, and that was just yesterday.
Being a mommy is tough, and even though my mind is okay with it, my body is telling me otherwise.
If I don’t get a vacation from these kids soon, I’m going to end up toothless.
I feel like there’s a joke in there about my husband benefiting from me having no teeth.
But seriously, when all my teeth crumble and shatter into a million pieces like those sugar creations on TV, it won’t be funny.
Okay, maybe a little funny because I can wear one of these: