I'd Take The Seasick Crocodile

In addition to my usual two cups of coffee with French vanilla cream this morning, I’ve needed a Pepsi. And another cup of coffee. And some extra heavy concealer to cover up my dark circles and try to convince the world that I am not a slept-in-the-gutter meth addict. It’s all Mr. Grinch’s fault . You’re a mean one, Mr.Grinch!

Little Squirt is, under most circumstances, as fearless as they come. He has Superhero powers in his own mind and is afraid of nothing. He is remniscent of Scrappy Doo; fierce and mighty and entirely unaware of how peanut-sized he actually is.

Being the youngest child by 8 years, Little Squirt has seen many movies that, in our most permissive parenting moments, we would never have allowed our older two to view at his age. Like "Saw." And "Halloween." And "Lord of the Rings." I know, I know; we're woefully negligent. But none of those movies have ever caused him to lose a wink of sleep. Until, that is, he saw the Jim Carrey version of the movie, “How The Grinch Stole Christmas.”

For whatever reason, Little Squirt is ferociously terrified of Mr. Grinch. That formidable green foe has slithered his way through my son’s dark bedroom and into his dreams on many a night since, reaking havoc with his sleep, and, hence, ours. The nasty, wasty, skunk.

Last night was such a night. I slept a beautiful two hours of REM sleep until 1am, when Little Squirt threw open our bedroom door and jumped into bed between us, yelling, “I dreamed about Mr. Grinch again! I’m not sleeping in my room!” And with that declaration was launched "Insomnia Time." For the next five hours I experienced Little Squirt tossing and turning, felt him play with my hair, and heard him scratch the headboard and whisper to the cat. No more sleep was actually gotten for the rest of the night. Now how come that didn't happen to The Whos, I ask you??

So I blame Mr. Grinch for my caffeine overdose, lack of concentration and my hair-trigger irritability today. I’m a “Needs 8 Hours of Sleep” kind of woman. Which did not happen last night. All because of stupid Mr. Grinch, the emerald-colored Who-hash and sleep-stealing goofball with the brain full of spiders, who is, according to Dr. Seuss: “A three-decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwich with arsenic sauce.” I could not say it any better myself. Stink. Stank. Stunk.