"To sleep, perhcance to dream."

Of all the changes to my being caused by the birth of my beautiful triplets, the one I am unable to come to terms with is the lack of sleep. Eight-five pound weight gain? pshaww. (And it was probably more but I stopped getting on the scale a full month before the blessed event.) And the itty-bitty titties, once my prtde and joy (rarely ever needed a bra)? Now the nips hang somewhere just north of the belly button. And let us not even discuss that flab of belly hanging over my private parts. Only surgery, I am told, will rectify that situation. Good, because I was never into crunches anyway. In the grand scheme of things, these are little inconveniences to put up with after 2.5 years of infertility, two myomectomies, one oopherectomy, countless undignified spreading of the coochie so doctors can have a look and ooomgobs of money spent on sperm and insemination equipment. I have no regrets.

But there is one thing that this 'ole lady cannot, I mean CANNOT get used to. It is lack of sleep. I was warned about this phenomena pre-babies by one of my two best friends whom I shall call Ru, because that is her name, but of course I didn't listen. Several days after the infamous "night of 20 minutes of sleep" when the triplets where five weeks old, I hired a nanny. (This was my pre-poverty days when I lived in a two-parent household and my job was still sending me maternity and disability checks.) Ostensibly the presence of the nanny was so I could get some writing done on my second novel. In reality, I paced the living room floor until she arrived, handed her the squirming babies then returned to my basement recliner and slept away her four hour shift. I had no shame. I was too tired for shame. That nanny did not last long. She had an annoying habit of just not showing up. My partner in child-rearing did not find it necessary to take a day or two off now and again to help so I was stuck 10-12 hours per day, alone trying not to go crazy, wondering if the fertility clinic could freeze two babies after they were born and defrost them for me at 2.5 year intervals. They couldn't. I asked.

Fast forward about a year and a half. I have left the pyscho ex and moved 923 miles into my parents' home. I still suffer from insomnia 2 or 3 nights a week. Grandma hid the Ambien from me but helpfully told me about the Advil PM she had purchased for Grandpa and then realized he could not combine that with the mess of other pills he was taken. She said I could have it for $7.50 plus tax. I don't have $7.50 plus tax so she gave it to me on credit. Sunday evening I popped three of those suckers figuring if two is the recommended dosage, three would really get the job done. Several hours later, still wide awake and getting the crap scared out of me by Forensics File, I popped several more. The next morning, I was a wee bit out of it. I fed the triplets breakfast at about 8:15a. And by breakfast I mean bottles of milk mixed with baby cereal and applesauce. I then crawled into my sister's bed (soooo much more comfortable than the sofa I'd been sleeping on) and begged her to go out to the kitchen and make sure they didn't kill themselves jumping from one highchair to another or crawling into the dishwasher to lick steak knives or crawling into the oven trying to bake themselves extra crispy. Then I passed out. (Flame me not, good people. Were I the only one at the house with the triplets, I would have sucked up the lack of sleep and tried to get a few snoozes during the babies' nap time. But there are three other more or less responsible adults in this home so I did what I needed to do. I just did it a bit too heartily.)

Several hours later, sis shook me awake and said that Grandma was worried and so had scheduled an appointment with my doctor. No one would let me drive myself, so Grandpa took me. I fell asleep in Dr. K's examination room. Dr. K said some stuff "Blah, blah, blah, blah....are you suicidal?" Now, at this point, I must digress and explain the inner workings of the Department of Children and Family services so you can understand my answer.

See, if you call DCF and explain to them that you don't want to go on cash assistance (welfare) because you have a contract for a second novel plus you are trying to start an online editing business plus you have other ideas for making money in the writerly world but please, please, please you just need 3 or so days of daycare for your triplet toddlers and you don't want to be in poverty forever so can they help out? They first ask you if you can show them a time card. Ummm, no. Then they say, in any case, they have a 9 month waiting list. So you work out a system with Grandma by which you take care of the kiddoes in the morning and then she takes over at 9am. She feeds them lunch at about 11:30, puts them down for their nap at about noon and her shift is over. At about 2:30 or 3 when they wake up, you take over again. That gives me 5 or 6 hours to work (or take a wee nap). Except Grandma often welshes on her part of the deal what with mani-pedis to be had, doctors' appointments, hair appointments, and funerals to attend (do you know how many Haitians come to Florida just to die? Incredible) Let us not forget the entire week+ she took to bed mourning the loss of Michael-but-the-kid-is-not-my-son-Jackson.

No, I was not suicidal....just damn sleepy. But that is not what I told Dr. K. because I heard it through the grapevine that if DCF suspects you are mentally sapped, they will move you straight to the top of that daycare waiting list. What I told Dr. K is that I have a desire to go to sleep and never wake up. "Hmmmm," he said and then left the examination room. I went back to sleep. A little while later, Grandpa came in and said that Dr. K wants me admitted to the hospital immediately. I vaguely remember being made to strip out of my clothes in the emergency room and don hospital gowns. Eighteen hours later I was awoken in a private room by a nurse stabbing the back of my hand with a needle. I screamed, then returned to sleep.

Later that morning, Grandma called and said that a nice lady from DCF had come to visit. DCF lady stripped the triplets down to their diapers and checked them over - I guess making sure I had not burned, bruised, or starved them. Said DCF lady, let's just call her Keisha, because that is her name, then showed up at my hospital bedside. She was very young, looked new to this social work business because her eyes were aglow and I got the distinct impression she thought she could help save the world one wacky family at a time. Had Donovan had his way with me when I was fourteen Keisha would be about the age of my never to be had first child ("Really, you can't get pregnant the first time!" Idiot teenage boys.)

Keisha said my children were so beautiful she wanted to take one home with her. I considered it for a moment. She then asked what the she could do to help me better care for myself and the children. I told her I needed half-a-million dollars and daycare. She didn't have half-a-mil on her but daycare she could provide.

So yesterday, I left the hospital with a refill on my antidepressants, an Rx for Ambien, a referral for daycare, and a wicked case of the runs (for cripes sake what do they put in that hospital food?) A successful couple days if you ask me (minus the constant pooping).