I give up.

I just woke up from a nap.

A beautiful, slightly-less-than-an-hour, would-have-been-longer-if-Bryan-hadn't-opened-the-decrepid-garage-door-directly-under-my-pillow, middle-of-the-day NAP.

There are, apparently, only so many days in a row in which I can handle waking at 4 a.m. to fetch hot milk, a new diaper, and/or (in a new, tragic turn of events) a new set of bedding NO! NO! NOT MY SNOWMAN SHEETS MOMMY NO, then waking for the day at 6 a.m. to either fetch more hot milk and turn on Olivia...or setting off for my fun-filled, spend-10-hours-on-your-feet job, before I start feeling like I could strangle my husband who not only sleeps peacefully through the negotiations being held across the hall regarding which set of bedding is best to employ before the sun comes up, but SNORES THROUGH IT.

If there is one thing I learned from the initial months after Zoey's birth, those horrid months filled with winter darkness, postpartum depression, lack of sleep, and a child who could have entered the Olympics on a pooping scholarship, it was this: when killing your husband starts to seem like a viable option and one that would only make your life easier, it's time to just wave the white flag and go take a nap, already.

Because I inherited the SuperMom gene from my very own mother, I find it hard to take a break in the action of laundry, cleaning, and general household organization tasks to just rest. But oohhhh....when I do....I feel like a new woman. Is it really possible that pausing to rest like this every once in awhile (or every day) will mean my laundry will snowball out of control, that the dust bunnies under the couch will grow their own brains and personalities and eventually plot to take over the world, or my family will only ever eat spaghetti from a jar for dinner?

Probably not.

But still. Baby steps, I suppose. At least I can recognize with stunning clarity now that curling up in bed at 2 p.m. on a Wednesday is preferable to beating my husband over the head with a baseball bat.