I just dropped Grace off at Sibshop, which is her monthly support group basically for siblings of kids with special needs. Except they play games, do crafts, and eat pizza, which I don’t think you would get at adult support groups. I’ve never been to a formal support group for myself. At least I don’t think so. There’s a very real possibility that I blocked it out after humiliating myself and I’m just saving the flashback for the next time I have to speak in front of a group of more than three people. There’s something to look forward to. I would join an exhausted mom support group if it consisted entirely of napping.
Since I am not a reliable witness to how the whole support group thing goes, I could be entirely wrong here, but I am pretty sure they involve a lot of crying and oversharing, and that any game they try to force me to play is going to evolve into a game of “count the swat officers.” Just watch me the next time I get roped into a “fun icebreaker” at a conference breakfast. I’m sorry, but if I have to participate in an icebreaker, especially before my coffee has even remotely kicked in, the breakfast is no longer free, because the legal fees alone are going to quickly surpass the cost of powdered scrambled eggs and bowl of fruit. That’s why I always make sure to take nine strips of bacon. It will either help me recoup some of the cost of my lost dignity or, fingers crossed, launch that heart failure.
Now that’s an ice breaker.
Grace has never tried to induce a cardiac event prior to the meeting, so I will take that as a good indicator that her group isn’t something straight out of a recurring nightmare. She says she loves it and always jumps at the chance to attend.
They all wore their Halloween costumes tonight (this is the part that gives me away that I started writing this weeks ago), so I was madly sewing and striping her Piglet costume last night, and possibly right up until the last minute. I’m not sure if it was the residual Sharpie high that had me slinking back out to my van after I dropped her off. It could be because I have been up since 4:30am, when Maggie decided to get up for the day. Whatever the reason, I am dozier than Winnie the Pooh.
So when the other mom who was walking out suggested that they should have a nap room for the moms to pass out in for two hours, I thought that was the best idea I have ever heard. Or at least right up there with whoever decided peanut butter and chocolate belong together. That good!
Except now I can’t stop thinking about it. I should have just stowed my Caravan seats right then and made my own nap room. Maybe that’s what Dodge really means…it’s not stow and go do errands, it’s stow and go the f@*k to sleep! I’ll be the engineer who came up with it is a tired mom. Or George Costanza. Remember his desk bed? Epic! Except I could never get away with it…people are bound to ask questions about the CPAP machine under my desk and what the long hose and apocalypse mask are for.
My god, I can’t even pull off being George Costanza!
My life has slunk to new lows.
I’m currently trying to revive myself with an XL dark roast while I mooch wifi from Tim Horton’s and write nonsensical things on my blog. But ever since that other mom talked about a nap room, it is all I can think about.
Next month I’m going to loiter in a Sleep Country and test out mattresses.
In the meantime, if anyone needs me, I’ll just be slumped across this booth, hoping I don’t see myself on the internet tomorrow. If I do, is there a support group for that?