DST Is Not For Me.

There comes a day in the realm of parenthood that ever parent dreads. They look to their calendars in November to see it blatantly bolded and italicized on the first Saturday of November: the words, “Daylight Savings Time.” As a parent of young children, there is one thing to which I hold an almost maniacal fervor, the early bedtime complete with routine. This soothes the crazed toddler/preschooler. It sets the stage for you and your husband to gaze adoringly at each other not in the presence of someone asking “Why?” a thousand times or the obsession of a 19 month old to that bold dickhead, Caillou. But then Daylight Savings Time arrives to fuck it all up. There is only one thing to do, extend bedtimes by an hour and pray after a few days things even out. But this weekend, not so easy.

To back track, last Thursday John picked up Maggie from daycare bringing her home. She proceeded to vomit in the car, then on John (repeatedly), then on the floor, then on the couch. Later on it was her crib. But by morning, she was absolutely fine. We figured it was something she ate due to the quick onslaught and violence of attack. However, in the early hours of Saturday morning, I awoke to a funny feeling in my stomach. It continued for a while as I become more and more nauseated. So much so, that at 3:30 a.m. I bolted upright for the bathroom to hurl out the contents of my stomach.

Owen decided this would be the perfect time to wake up. “Owen, you can’t wake up. You need to go to sleep. You will be exhausted.” Its daylight savings day asshole, and you need to be awake until 8:30 (at the least). But my vomiting obviously excited the little guy, since he decided that 4:00 a.m. would be the perfect time to awake for the day. Due to the fact I was a blubbering idiot incapable of doing anything but lying in bed wailing, John did the solid and took the boy. Maggie McCall hearing her brother decided to wake up at 5:30 a.m. This was also the time after making another stomach turning approach to the bathroom, I fell to the kitchen floor crying for a quick and immediate death.

As the morning progressed, my trips to the bathroom lessened. By 2:00 p.m. I was able to hold down some water, then toast, and finally soup. At 4:30 p.m, it was as though a switch was flipped. I was completely better and absolutely starving. Owen then looked at me, and proceeded to vomit the metric ton of buttered pasta and carrots he had for lunch, and the two pieces of toast, and the Hershey’s bar. Not once, not twice, but three times. Covered in his submission to the McCall Stomach Virus Abstract Art Show 2010, we proceeded to the shower. As the evening passed, I was the recipient of Owen’s stomach contents an astounding six times. This just goes to show you the level of a mother’s love. Holding his vomit in my hands after he puked like a Eucharistic offering at church because I did not want it to hit the sheets. Or maybe that was just laziness. Whatever. The point is the kid was passed out into a feeble state at 6:15, on muther effin Turn the Clocks Back Night. Which means he would be up again sometime around 4:30 a.m.

But by some miracle, he was able to sleep until 6:00 a.m., and by some further miracle, this dastardly disease bypassed John. We were able to go to the Academy of Arts and Sciences, watch football and enjoy the rainy day. The kids went to bed immediately last night and both slept until 6:00 a.m. this morning. So DST, I still hate you. Why do we even have it? Seriously. Also, I need a drink.