Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing—Benjamin Franklin

I am a medical miracle.

Mostly because that is the only explanation for the fact that I can still stand up and carry on a semiconscious conversation when for the last week I've gotten twelve hours of sleep cumulatively. Two hours a night is not enough sleep. On the plus side, things are a hundred times funnier when you are delirious. For example, when your three-year-old wakes you up in the middle of the night by "whistling"--which basically means he yells, "Woot! Wooo! Woot!" over and over again--and saying,"Mommy, come to me NOW!" you laugh rather than cry. Or when one or both of your children somehow choose the exact moment that your head hits the pillow to start crying and it makes you giggle (most of the time). Or when you finally do get to get back in bed and not only is your husband taking up the entire bed, he is wrapped in the sheets so tight that you have to pry them from his sleeping form or freeze to death trying, and you laugh so hard you almost cry.
Life is so much more entertaining when you don't sleep.
Life is also so much more entertaining when it is finals time. This I owe to Bryce being the craziest sleeper known to man and when he is stressed it is even better. We have had so many sleep conversations in the last few weeks that have ended with him announcing, "Ignore me. I think I'm asleep." There have been remarkable few instances of spousal abuse this time around though, so maybe we are making improvements.

Gigi is growing like a weed, despite the lack of sleep, and Little is possibly the sweetest big brother on the planet. He still throws a fit every time someone holds her or looks like they might try, but we're working on it. He loves to play with her and make her smile--which she does quite a bit these days. The other day he was snuggling on my lap while I fed her and he said, "Mommy, baby Gigi is certainly beautiful." He could not love her more. He has also attempted to climb up into her bed or the changing table to try to talk to her on several occasions. To the point that I finally dragged a stool into her room and showed him an easier way to get to her. All day long it is, "Baby Gigi wants this," or "Baby Gigi is unhappy, help her!" or "Baby Gigi woke up. Woot! I'm so excited!" How in the world did I get such sweet kids?


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