Don't be Messing with Karma.

All parents know it. Once you’ve had children you are no longer allowed to brag. About anything. Even the smallest accomplishments that you or your children achieve must be kept cloistered away, never to be shared with those outside your home.

If you dare remark on your own good fortune, Karma will come a’ callin.’

Guaranteed.

And not the good, happy-happy Karma either. I’m talking about Murphy’s Law Karma.

Yes, the Karma that’s spawned when Irish bad luck and Indian folklore meet over a pint of Guinness and a pot of C’hai tea. It’s wicked nasty and should be avoided at all cost.

Yes, oh Great Karma, I am guilty.

I messed up. I forgot the rule and I bragged. I boasted on facebook for the whole world to read, that I had a full night’s sleep. Zero interruptions. No children waking from bad dreams, needing back rubs. No pooch  making tiny OCD circles by my feet, dog tags jingling wildly. No blackberry pings, jolting Drew from sleep, grunting incoherently.

And I didn’t crow about just one night of slumber, but I went so far as to gloat about two uninterrupted glorious nights…in a row. Go big or go home, I always say. Woopsie.

So what gift did Murphy’s Law Karma present me as punishment for my bravado?

Two inglorious nights of insomnia – awake until 1:00, with a side of Monkey-Brain – random worries flooded my brain as I remained sleepless, all unpleasantly capped off by Rooster-Riser – scruffy-eyed and half alert at 4:30.

My lesson has been learnt, oh Great Karma. I promise to keep silent on all future accomplishments.

Oh. Hmm.

I wonder if sharing my daughter’s great report card would be considered bragg…kk9l';'g..kdm

Doh. Hand Cramp. Owie. Duly noted, Karma.

Make Mine an Extra-Large Double, Double.

Never make an important decision on a bad night's sleep.

Hmmm. On the surface this is solid advice. But what if you never get a good night's sleep...ever? Okay, so maybe I exaggerate, but it doesn't feel like such a huge stretch this morning.

I remember a day nine years ago, when we just bought our cottage. Emma was 18 months old and Grandma had her for the weekend, so we could paint over the canary yellow and pepto bismol pink bedrooms. It was our first weekend on our own, and the most memorable part of the weekend? Not the dinner out at delicious Casa Bianca, or the long walk on the boardwalk at Winnipeg Beach, or even the…well never mind about that. It all paled to sleeping in Saturday morning…until 9:00 am.

Almost an entire decade has flown by, and we’ve never come close to sleeping that late again.

 

I’m currently in a bad pattern of not sleeping. I refuse to call it insomnia. That sounds too dark, scary, and far too permanent of a problem.

 

Last night, at our writing group meeting, The Anitas, we were given a simple free writing exercise. We were each given a slip of paper with three to seven words. The task; to use each word in a five minute story. This is one of my favourite writing games. No lies, I get goose bumps just thinking about it. Once the time is up, we read out loud our “five minute masterpieces,” which are often lame, but always entertaining. So, after Mel read her seven word assignment and proudly announced she’d used each word in her story, I realized it.

I realized that I hadn’t used any of the three measly words that were typed neatly on my slip of paper. In fact, I totally forgot that was the assignment. Seriously. I remember reading the words and getting a fuzzy feeling of a theme for a story and starting to write.

 

We all laughed at my lack of attention, which was hilarious at the time, in that punch-drunk way things are funny when you’ve been without sleep for 10 years. Yup, all pretty hilarious. (I just can’t remember driving home.)

So, in the light of dawn, I’ve come to realize something else.

I suffer, like millions around the world, from self diagnosed OTPD.

Over-Tired Parents Disorder.

It’s fairly new, so you can be forgiven for not being familiar with it. It doesn’t yet have the same hype as the other acronyms that get splashed around the cafeteria.

 

Drew, recently came down with a lingering case of OTPD and he talks with reverence of that July Saturday so long ago, and that 9 am sleep-in. It’s become a sort of Carmichael Holy Day; a High Holiday for sleep deprived parents.

So...what was I supposed to be doing this morning? Right. Work. Guess I need to put the pen down, pull out of the Tim Horton’s parking lot, and get going. But wait; is that McPhillips or Pembina Hwy? 

Wait a minute...how did I get here?

I wonder if Tim Horton’s sells coffee by the carafe.  Mmmmm, coffee…