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COUNTING SHEEP As the parent of an 11 month old, I can attest to the absolute veracity of the old wives tale that what you miss, more than anything, from the days before the stork brought you your bundle of joy is uninterrupted sleep. What I want, please God what I want the most, is for someone to take my stinking kid from me for a full 24 hours, of which I would spend at least 20 sprawled across a bed saturating a pillowcase with drool. I am tired. Today, Sunday, is worse than most days. For one thing, my husband Dave decided yesterday morning that, this being a lazy weekend for the Walkers with little on the agenda, we should take advantage by taking turns getting up with our daughter Jane and letting the other one sleep in. In my half-awake stupor I didn’t have the foresight to argue with him that no; he should go ahead and take the first day, so I wasted my sleeping in day yesterday and had to get up with the little monster today. In addition, we met up with friends for dinner last night and had Janie out quite late; she fell asleep in the car and we ended up putting her down without her last nursing. Miss a meal? Not my fat husband’s kid: at 1:36 am, after enduring 15 minutes of blood curdling screams, I brought my breast in and calmed the beast.
Which leads me to a frequent collateral problem I face: if I am woken up in the middle of the night, about half the time it takes me forever to go back to sleep. Last night was the absolute worst: I laid their ruminating over some injustice or another, planned out my work week, and half-way wrote this article in my head. I guess I do get some things accomplished in these wee-hour sleep-eluding torture sessions (earlier in the week I finished up some lyrics for a song Dave and I were writing), but I also spend way too much time stressing about losing out on the valuably little time I have until that little voice blasts away though the dreaded, despised little walkie-talkie-looking baby monitor. In addition, the knowledge that my husband, who was snoring peacefully on the pillow next to me, was going to be able to roll over and sleep away in the morning drove me to such a fury that he is very, very lucky to have survived to see another day. Sleep…I feel like it’s a delicious food to consume and a warm shroud with which to ensconce myself all wrapped up in one. As an off-shoot of my obsession with sleep, I’ve lately been crazy into comfort-wear. I’ve been rocking the housecoats for years, but lately I’ve been really into pajamas: sleepers, bathrobes, sweatpants, 2 piece kiddy pajamas, men’s PJ’s, boxers, boxer briefs – I am on a never-ending search for the quintessential lounging ensemble. I have 4 pairs of slippers. Despite all the joy my daughter brings me, I must admit that my favorite part of the day is the moment that I lay down on the couch in my polar bear pajamas and fluffy slippers, the floor swept, toys picked up, child sleeping peacefully in the crib, dishwasher gently swishing in the kitchen; I grab onto the warm fuzzy blanket that has been beckoning me from it’s folded position on the corner of the couch throughout the day, tuck it up under my chin, lay back on the couch and snooze out to the droning of the television and the clickity clack of Dave’s computer. I’m going to take a nap. |
