Light Night, Night Light

With longer days there is sunny bedtime for the kids. Sleeping has not been going smoothly lately. I am woken up at least twice a night by one of the kids. I’m not sure how my kids are getting away with this cockamamie sleeping pattern since they are 2 and 3 and a half.

The most obvious reason they get away with sleeping like a newborn is that they are spoiled. I feel like the more spoiled they become the less grateful they are for my servitude. They are pushing the boundaries more and more.

For example, my son has developed a terrible habit of saying he hates everything, including me. When I was driving my daughter to school yesterday, George sat in his car seat behind me and repeated, “I hate mommy,” the entire car ride. I react with attachment parenting recommended negative reinforcement, but after weeks of seeing no difference, and the combination of never getting to enjoy deep sleep, I imagined myself turning around and slapping him across the face.

I spoke with my brother this morning. His kids are the same age as mine, and are ruled with an iron fist. My brother and his wife follow a parenting approach called Baby Wise, and when I first heard of it, I thought it sounded cruel, but after seeing the kids' development and discipline, I think it is a highly effective approach.

First of all, my brother and his wife are exceptional parents, mainly because they put so much thought and work into their children’s life. They are strict, and I think people misconstrue that with a desire to attain more personal time, however, it is quite the opposite. My brother diligently does the My Baby Can Read program, and low and behold, my 3 year old niece can freaking read. It is not memorizing either, she can read a book she has never seen before. They have started her on Suzuki piano lessons, and she is on the fast track to learing chopsticks. I will not be surprised to learn that next year she has knit every one in the family monogrammed beer cozies and has started speaking conversational Chinese.

Tonight, after putting the kids to bed at 7, George broke a record by crying for me 30 minutes after he fell asleep. A heat wave started today, and when I went to soothe him he felt sweaty. He curled into me as I cradled him in the glider chair. As I blew cool air on his damp head and rocked the chair back and forth, he looked up at me and said, “I like rocking chair. I like rocking chair.” Tears welled up to finally hear him complimentary.

My daughter yelled for me at 9. She is scared of the dark, so when I sat next to her on the bed she glowed under a pink spotlight that illuminates the room after the sun goes down. She looked at me and said, “Can you snuggle with me?” Then, I realized how easy it is for me to spoil my kids. 

I suppose by indulging in my kids' excessive wants, I am spoiling them, but that will help mold them into adults with high self-esteem and healthy entitlement issues, which seves someone greatly in adult life. If that belief makes me sleep a bit easier, then I will take it. I need all the help I can get these days.

I Hate Everything

He's an animal!

I went through four bed side lamps in the last year. My first lamp was a high priced beauty from Target. Foreseeing the future destruction, I bought its successors from a thrift store around the corner. Surprisingly, nice looking lamps at the thrift store, although they are much more elaborate than lamps at Target, are comparable in price. Since I hope to not grow any attachment to the lamp, expecting it to fall way to my barbaric child, I buy the cheapest lamp available.
I reprimand George in the traditional avenue; timeout, deep breath, try not to hit my child. Then, I clean the mess, get George from time out, and give him the attention he craved when he ran at my bedside table and ferociously swept the lamp on the floor.
When George gets wound up in a tizzy he likes to tell me how much he hates everything. In a deep football player hut-hut-hike voice he says, "I hate!" George learned the word hate from a short phase Kingsley went through after starting preschool. He noticed our reaction to her; we'd gasp, and say, "Noooo!"
I tamed my reaction to George, thinking he will be unimpressed by my less dramatic disapproval. I calmly say to him, "George, we don't say that word."
He loves to tell me how much he hates everything when he is HANGRY; hungry-angry. A vicious cycle George gets caught up in because he is too wild to sit down and eat, and then when he is past the point, he lacks the know-how eating food will help him. He is pissed from not eating, and then too pissed to eat.
I dangle food in front of him trying to entice him to consume a first bite, hoping it will trigger a desire to eat more. Each bite I put in front of him as he angrily storms around the house, he swooshes away, telling me he hates it.
"Hey George, why don't you try this delicious turkey?"
"I HATE turkey!"
"Eat some of this nice ripe avocado, it's so delicious."
"I HATE avocado."
"How about a cheeto? You want a cheeto?"
"I HATE cheeto!"
"George, how can you say you hate cheetos? Sacrilege!"
I get his appetite going by giving him a Jelly Bean because he can't say no to sugar. Then he calms down, and will come around to macaroni and cheese, a favorite on his very short list of foods he will eat.
A couple years ago my cousin told me about her 3 year old nephew's affinity for shouting, "I hate daddy!" At the time, I was childless, and had not been around children, or even held a baby in my adult life, but I felt like I had a good grasp of the situation.

I affirmed, "His mom must tell your brother that she hates him in front of him. How sad. Their family life seems tragically messy."

Fast forward to now, when my 2 year old has developed a real love for throwing the "hate" word around. I don't ever say hate around the kids because I'm trying to lead by example.
I am eating crow, cleaning up broken lamp, and listening to my toddler tell me how much he hates everything.

The latest monstrosity looks indestructible

Sweet Dreams Game of Thrones

Not quite Khaleesi

I watched the first two and a half seasons of Game of Thrones and had to jump ship. I found drifting off to sleep difficult after watching an hour of rape, head bludgeoning, blood-splattering murder, dicks being chopped off, psycho Prince Geoffrey and a creepy pale lady breast-feeding a 7 year old. 

Aside from that, the story is interesting, and I will probably watch the final episode of the series to see who wins the throne. Fingers crossed, it's sexy John Snow! 

It took 2 years of feeling awful at bedtime for me to realize, I don't think this show is doing me any good. Game of Thrones is one of the biggest shows on TV at the moment, and its like a fucking volcano of violence. My mom loves the show so much, she suggested I name my daughter Khaleesi.
The lure for graphic violence is masochistic, yet it serves a very large audience, proving itself much needed.
A thought I had, is that these extremely violent shows are appealing to people who have skated through life untouched by horror and they are filling in a void for craved violence.
Do people of war torn countries curl up on their couch Sunday evenings to watch the blood bath on Game of Thrones, or do they feel like the local news is giving them enough horror?
Then, I imagined Quintin Tarintino woken up every morning by his bubbly mother, who was holding a cup of hot chocolate and singing, "Good morning, sweet Quintin-poo!" Propelling his future self to make videos of heads being chopped off, and brains exploding from a close range bullet.
I live a great life, but there are certainly some ticks on my timeline that could easily be turned into an entertaining episode of Law and Order. This could be why I don't need added terrible shit to think about. Or, it could simply be that I am a pansy ass. Those gals on Real Housewives don't make me question humanity or viewership tendencies. They aren't gun slingers, but wine slingers, and that's something that makes me sleep easily.

Vacation From Friday Night Staycations

iPad relaxing the kids when out to eat dinner

Twenty years ago I would have been able to enjoy my cervecas and TV relaxation time without a laptop on my lap, absorbing any dull moment.  Now, my Friday night staycation is spent traversing through a trifecta of entertainment streams; phone, TV, and laptop.

Reality TV and beer go together like peas and carrots. I don't think I could tolerate reality TV unless I'm buzzed, however, the combination of kicking back a couple brewskis and watching a group of rowdy women alpha dogging each other, is a magically fun and calming time. The Internet gets thrown in because web surfing and TV go together like peas and carrots. Friday's fun is a regular veggie salad. 

When texting is going on, then there is hardly a minute to take a deep breath. I generally live by the rule, never answer the phone after 9 pm because there is a drunk person on the other line who will talk until they're hung up on.

My sister is a great offender of phoning while drunk. I am forced to break my rule when she calls on Friday night because she is relentless and calls over and over till I pick up. On the fifteenth call I answer the call and she says, “Why are you ignoring me?” and then goes on a talking marathon.

She likes to chat on the phone while she is having her libations, going through Pinterest and watching TV, having a very festive trifecta session. 
The problem with multitasking so many tools during drinking is that if the chill time is elevated to party for one, then the phone or Internet are excellent soap boxes, for what should have been a conversation with the pillow. When Coors gets upgraded to IPA, for example, these mediums for communicating can turn into little fucking time bombs.
For my sister, she gets on the phone with someone she doesn't know that well, having an hour long conversation, making plans and "getting deep." The next day she shrugs off the uncomfortable feeling of exposing too much of herself, and puts herself in adult time out for the next couple weeks.

Since I am not much of a phone talker, I run into trouble with emails, specifically getting sentimental and nostalgic writing lengthy, but funny, emails, oh, and tweeting every thought that pops into my head.

If it were 20 years ago, I could wake up in the morning, look at the penned out letter, and decide if I should crumple it up and throw it in the trash. After assessing that I like the letter then I'd drive it to the post office, happy that in a week the recipient will read my thoughtful letter I chose to send it in an undrunk state of mind. 

Twenty years ago, I was only 12 years old, so drinking casually on the couch while watching TV would be a poor reflection on my parents. Now that I am at a point in my life where drinking to relax is part of the game, relaxation is rather complicated, and involves multitasking a remote, computer and phone in between arm curls.

Eventually I am going to have to take a vacation from my Friday night staycations. Some where without Wi-Fi.

They're up for a vacation, as long as it involves water

Smiling through some one else's toddler tantrum

Being a good boy, taking care of his cousin

I spend my days chasing little kids, who lets face it, are a tad ungrateful and sometimes don't have much consideration for my feelings. My son is almost 2, and he is a big kid, very tall and strong. I go to bed with back pain, and my arms hurt from lifting and carrying him around throughout the day.
He is not sleeping well, and this has turned his baby fits into epic spasms of wiggling, and arms flailing where he unknowingly (perhaps, slightly knowingly) throws his arms into my face. The short of it is, it's parent abuse.
I am not such a sucker that I take it, I have to put him in time out. I understand he is in a state of hysteria, and since I consider him to be a sweet natured person normally, I don't chuck him across the room like the fucking she-hulk.
I bring him to his crib, so he can cry himself tired. It is the safest thing to do because holding him is allowing him to physically beat on me, and he is so strong that he could wiggle free, falling to the ground.
It is a phase, and luckily everyone I complain to is quick to remind me it's a phase. They shake their head knowingly, and utter, "It's the beginning of his terrible twos."
I don't like how these fits make me think of him, as a whiney bratty child. The more these tantrums come, the more I am growing a distaste for 2 year olds. When he is not going ballistic, which is the majority of the time, he is the picture of perfection. So during his fits, I swing from idyllic bliss to questioning the purpose of procreating.
I take a deep breath through the stress his tantrums bring on to everyone. I advise my daughter to do the same when she becomes distraught over something as little as syrup being poured on her pancake. She grits her teeth, gets a cold stare, and turns red, saying in escalating volume, "I don't like syrup!"
I say, "Breath deep, and relax, it is just syrup," as I remove the drip with a sweep of my thumb.
Aside from George's Mr. Hyde moments, we are having a great time. Today we met up with my cousin at a park downtown. As we were parting ways, the kids were getting tired, and her son threw a grade A fit. He was hungry and after he got a snack he calmed down.
Watching him go ape shit because he had an empty belly was a relief to see, a good reminder that all little kids act like little assholes sometimes, and when they aren't sleeping right or eating on schedule, they tend to let the tantrum go from bad to good-freaking-god-awful in a matter of seconds. I have to give George some space to act deranged and not assume he needs to be shipped off to toddler reform school.
After my nephew was calm and they were waving good bye, my cousin said, "Oh gosh, I hope we weren't getting the stare down from other parents."
And, like I were giving myself a pep talk in the mirror, I said what I need to tell myself when George goes fucking nuts, "No one cares! Any parent understands. Even the most perfect kid in the world acts that way."

Feeling Frumpy

Last night I made the bad decision to stay up till eleven, watching Southern Charm and drinking Coors Light. The bad part isn't watching crap reality TV or drinking crap (but very satisfying) beer. The bad part was staying up till eleven.
George has turned into an unpredictable sleeper lately. He wakes up during the night, and then I wake up to put him back to sleep. I'm not awake all night, but its a night of frequently interrupted sleep. I'm not recharged in the morning, and George's sleep regression is leaving me feeling run down.
Last night, when eight o'clock rolled around, and both the kids were asleep, I should have curled up in bed, anticipating waking up hours later by a crying baby.
The slight adrenaline rush of having personal time propelled me to turn on the TV and get a cold brewski. After I watched 2 episodes, I figured I might as well finish the next three episodes available On Demand.
The show isn't even that great. It is basically a bunch of rich people living the life of leisure, while criticizing each other. One character, Whitney, who seems a bit like Price Geoffrey from Game of Thrones, calls another character white trash because he thought she "trapped" his rich ass friend by having a baby with him.
I haven't heard "white trash" in a while, and didn't see how it fit describing this red head vixen dressed in Channel and Miu Miu. It becomes clear why Whitney calls people "white trash" after we meet his mother; a socialite who looks like Elizabeth Taylor, wearing a silk robe with boa trim, the picture of perfection, until she opens her mouth. She tops the white trash criticism by saying, "Sure, she proved her 200 year lineage, but she is the result of poor breeding."
Ouch!
Maybe it's because I am so tired, but after watching five hours of beautiful people dressed impeccably, looking down on the poorly bred, I feel really gross and think my look is blah. After telling my sister I need a makeover, I describe myself as white trash. She could only reply to the unusual and harsh comment, that I sound hormonal.
It's a culmination of things; my hair looks like shit because I need to dye my roots, I prefer bare feet, and sitting under the sun in my lawn chair is heavenly. My panache for Coors Light resonates from a fun loving past, but it's because more expensive beers, like IPA,  get me shit faced in less than a 6 pack.
Maybe it isn't right to be fat and happy, or tan and relaxed, or bare foot and chasing kids, because these things lead to a judgmental eye from the sad saps wearing feather boas in their bed having breakfast alone. She might comment on muffin tops, or wrinkles around the eyes, or even the unruliness of happy children, but it is the comforts of her solitude that fulfill her visions of grandeur.
When I manage to get my hair dyed I will feel much better. If anything, reality TV has taught me, especially the lovely ladies on The Real Housewives of Melbourne, who love to say, "Darling," is that "any woman who feels beautiful, feels good."
Going to bed early is critical to my beauty health, so I have to get to the hair dying after I get some better sleep. I won't fret about the bare feet or the wrinkles now. Notice how I don't stress on Coors Light, that's the result of poor breeding.

Selfies when feel frumpy

An Involuntary Smile

Painting whales

Last night I woke up to Kiki laughing. When I walked down the hall to check on her, expecting to see her sitting up awake, I found her fast asleep, lightly snoring. I smiled to see her sleeping face, knowing she was having so much fun dreaming, and went back to bed.

That day we went to the zoo. As we were watching the flamingos a young girl came up to the wooden fence around the pond and started laughing maniacally, as if she was witnessing an entirely different scene. Two Pelicans were running around the perimeter. They looked like squat mad scientists, Doc Browns types, with heads full of long white wispy hairs. This could have been what she found so amusing. Her lack of inhibitions while cackling away at the fence was a sight to behold. I felt a tinge envious of her ecstatic bird watching.

I'm a regular at the zoo, and often think about if the animals prefer captivity, and come to different conclusions based on the animal. 

The stoic lions seem to have accepted their fate. Rather than try and pounce at people from behind the cage, spending day after day enraged, they meander around with their heads held high, unimpressed with the gawking crowds. Maybe they are building up resentment, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Kiki has a book about a class trip to a Sea Park. Her favorite part is where the class watches an orca whale show. She talks about the orca and how it splashes water on the crowd with excitement. I thought she would like to watch Blackfish because of her new interest.

In retrospect, Free Willy might have been a better choice. I saw Blackfish a while ago, and forgot how disturbing it is. It ended up being fine for her to watch because the violence is not shown, and the story is too complex for her to follow. All the talk about animal abuse and animals chewing up trainers is over her head. She is simply impressed by watching the killer whales. 

The orca Tillikum's first attack occurs at Sea Land, a water park in Victoria. Two women who witnessed the attack are interviewed, and it looks like the brunette is holding back a big smile while she describes the violent scene. There is a slight grin while she tells the story, a story she's told hundreds of times. Even as she offers condolences to the dead trainer's family, she appears giddy.

I'm assuming, it's the awkwardness of having a camera in her face as she goes through the gory memory. 

I once saw someone die in similar gore in Mexico. An old lady lost her balance at the top of a massive Mayan pyramid. I was at a distance from the base and watched her tumble from the peak of a very steep stone mountain to the base. The entire place fell silent as we watched. It looked fake, like a crash test dummy, her limp body tumbling down.

My dad is a doctor and my sister is a nurse, so they ran over to the base of the pyramid. They saw her bleeding, a body beaten so badly inside, it was oozing out of her gashes and cuts. An ambulance came and she was taken away.

When I tell this story to people I don't laugh or smile, but I conclude with a snort or chuckle, "it was one of the craziest things I have seen."

After Tillikum gobbles up his first victim, he gets shipped to Sea World where he picks off a few more trainers. Shockingly, Sea World still exists, and there is one pretty close to my house. I have the sense to not question the content of the documentary, and to boycott the sea park, even though Kingsley would really enjoy the show.

We won't see an orca show, take the chance of watching a killer whale use a trainer as a chew toy. I'd hate to think of Kiki's reaction. As a three year old, she couldn't understand captivity, retribution, animal abuse or the hopeful ambitions of animal trainers. She would think it's part of the show, and stand up, jumping, cheering and laughing at the scene. 

I'd be left to retell the story, and while explaining Kiki's involuntary gladiator spectating, a tiny smile would emerge, subtly indicating, I enjoyed the experience.

Zoo memories

Toxic Shock Syndrome

Stress free living looks much like a Wes Anderson character

One week out of the month I worry I might get Toxic Shock Syndrome, and die. After I shower I think, "Did I take the last one out?" There is only so much feeling around before I resolve with shaky certainty that I can insert a new one.
The tampon removal lapse in memory is one of those moments where I should say, "Alicia, why not take better note next time when you remove it before the shower. Like say out loud, 'I'm taking the tampon out!' so you don't fucking forget every time."
Instead I say something like, "OK, dumb dumb, your fucking halfway through your period life, you should have this shit figured out by now."
This is not the type of positive thinking to promote change in behavior.
I'm conditioned to react this way after listening to my mom call herself an idiot my entire life. She does it out of habit. After a long diatribe where she touts her stance on things, and then when she comes to her conclusion, she wraps it up by saying, "What do I know though?" or, "But I'm so dumb, and don't really know much."
Always quick to come to her defense, I say, "Well, it sounded like you knew a lot! Jeez, why do you say that kind of stuff?" and my mom always replies, "I'm just talking, Alicia," as in, "I don't really mean I'm stupid when I call myself stupid."
I know why my mom calls herself stupid in a self deprecating way. It's because her mom says it. My Grandma Jackie has the kind of background that might make a person consider her stupid. She was raised in Missouri, and married at 14. She tells me stories of how, as a little girl, when she was sitting on the toilet in the outhouse and heard the train coming, she would swing the door open and wave hello at the passing train. She widowed very young, and had the sense to never go down that road again, because she got it right the first time around. Now she enjoys her leisure time, reading books and traveling.

I am watching the movie Unbroken. At first, I thought the movie was going to be retired Abercrombie and Fitch models dressed up as soldiers playing guns, but this shit took a turn for the worse, and is hard to watch. I am at the part where he is being punched in the face by his fellow prisoners. I wonder why I ever started watching this movie because it is making me sick.
I had to fix a clogged toilet today, and felt so sorry for myself. I was gagging while plunging the toilet, but now I realize just how stupid it was to feel such disturbance. I wouldn't call myself stupid, but I will acknowledge my behavior as stupid. Pitying myself for having to unclog a toilet is pretty self indulgent considering there are people in the world floating on a raft in the middle of the ocean slowly dying, or prisoners being decapitated and their heads paraded around on spikes.
Unbroken delivered an unexpected shock syndrome. It's not toxic, but certainly penetrating and lingering. Fucking reevaluate the shit I am complaining about because I should be grateful there is not a bird man following me around and beating me in the face with giant bamboo sticks.
Don't stress out about such innocuous things as tampons, and my mom and grandma harmlessly insulting themselves.
 A theme of Unbroken is self worth, and we preform as well as we expect ourselves to. I put this little lesson in my pocket, and can add a bit from my bedtime reading with Kiki. In Charlotte's Web, Wilbur goes ballistic after he is told by the bitchy sheep he is going to be killed by Mr. Zuckerman, Charlotte tells Wilbur she will save him and to live by these words, "Never hurry and never worry." Obviously, we are not as naive as Wilbur, and know that we will die eventually, but luckily we don't have any belief we will be consumed by something other than the earth. So never hurry and, especially, never worry because the worst that could happen is the least memorable moment in ones life. (cough cough, I am talking about the death part)

In retrospect, it wasn't so bad.

Conserve Water

Family baths to conserve water? Probably not.

When kingsley woke up this morning, she looked at me, and the first thing she said was, "Is today Thursday?"
I said, "No, it's Wednesday."
She looked happy, "So I don't have to take a bath?"
"I don't know yet," I sleepily replied. I didn't want to make her any promises I would later have to retract since bathing depends greatly on what we do during the day, the foods we eat and, most importantly, occurrence of the last bath.
After having my coffee I thought about my own bathing habits. I shower after working out, and this week I haven't been exercising because I have a cold. I was due for a shower, especially since we were going into the world today for music class, although I'd be welcome at music class if I hadn't bathed in a couple days and dabbled patchouli on my wrists.

I was reading a tweet on water conservation from a woman suggesting people set a timer and take only a three minute shower as a way to conserve water in our very serious drought that isn't getting the public reaction it needs.
The lack of reaction is definitely the result of the media, who keep inundating Californians with shocking images of our changing landscape, leaving feelings of destitute and helplessness, rather than offering suggestions for people to curb their water usage.
I don't take showers longer than three minutes because my kids would probably break lamps or draw on the walls if I ignored them for that long. I am a conservationist through the strict reign of my children, although it is likely outweighed by the amount of dishes I wash, which seems like millions.
Today the kids can skip the bath, although I must take a shower, and it will be two minutes long.
I put on cartoons to hypnotize the kids so they don't realize I'm doing something that doesn't completely revolve around them. In the cartoon one of the character's name is Pussy Cat. Kingsley now calls me Pussy Cat. She sounds like a sexist casino pit boss. It's hilarious, only because she is a 3 year old little girl.

Maybe Californians need water conservation suggestions delivered through funny commercials. Instead of an orange news caster blubbering about how this is the end for farmers, and the tears shed for dying grass are all that will be watering front lawns soon, they could show ads of a 3 year old saying, "Stop taking such long showers, Pussy Cat."
I'm no marketing expert though. I am skeptical people even watch commercials. That seems like a good time to wash dishes or take a shower.

We still have to water the pink cactus, and give it a nice purple hat.

Cry It Out

In need of mascara, and sleep

The fridge is so loud today, and my hair feels unusually heavy.
I didn't sleep last night, or the night before, and not too much the night before that. Baby George decides to wake up around 10:30 pm, and cry till I lay with him, and then squirms, flops around; sporadically kicking legs and flailing arms, physically conveying any feelings of discomfort or stress.
I tried to make him cry it out, but listening to him cry for 20 minutes is sad, and makes me feel awful. I give in after a couple minutes, and then kick myself all night long as I lay awake. He needs to cry through it one time, and it will put us all back on track.
My eyes are starting to look like they're being eaten by my skull. They mutely fluttered at me, requesting mascara. Five coats of mascara, in combination with 5 cups of coffee, gave me the zest to take the day head on.
We started by cleaning the house and went to the mall for carousel rides, Panda Express and an hour in the battlefield known as the kids' play area. The kids' play area is a great place to talk on the phone while watching your kids run amuck. It is also a great place to get pink eye, bronchitis and athlete's foot.
Parents who aren't on their phones sit on the foamy bench with self righteousness shooting from their watchful eyes. If there weren't so many fucking weirdos at the mall, I would be tempted to take a nap. Surely, some creep would try to lure children from this site of innocence by dangling a Cinnabon at the exit.
I used a similar technique to get my kids to stop running around and coax them to leave.  After a couple unanswered requests for them to come over to me, I shouted,"Lets get ice cream on the way to the car!" As if they were cured from deafness, they stopped running, lined up behind me like good little ducklings, and followed me through the exit.
We spent the rest of the afternoon watching cartoons and making dinner.
After putting George to sleep I laid with Kingsley, and read to her. The faucet in the bath tub drips, and the sound of each drop echoes while I narrate Charlotte's Web in my soothing, night time radio Delila voice.
Kingsley drifts off to sleep, and I tiptoe out of her room and go shut the bathroom door, silencing the annoying dripping faucet.
I lay in bed thinking of a line from Charlotte's Web. BeforeWilbur is told his fate, and Charlotte vows to save him, he is babied by Fern, who pushes him around in a stroller and feeds him milk by a bottle. After Fern tucks Wilbur in the stroller and he drifts off to sleep it says, "Every day was a happy day, and every night was peaceful."
Is the peaceful night a result of the happy day, or the happy day the result of a peaceful night.
Hopefully, tonight will be peaceful because even though we didn't enjoy the night before, we still had a very happy day. I'm just following the chain of events.
Either way, George is going to cry it out. I really mean it this time. Our happiness and peacefulness is depending on it.

Hello Again, Cold Sore

Herpes labiallis, your name alone is offensive and stress inducing

Hello again, cold sore. You ugly shit for brains. Yesterday, I thought you might be on the way, but I shrugged it off as chapped lips. At the moment, I am slowly killing you, with a cocktail of pharmaceuticals. I wish it would be faster, and not to be more humane.

It's the stress of getting a cold sore from stress that brings the cold sore on.