Winter brings little encouragement. It has me
gazing out the window late at night, waiting for Dr. Zhivago to proceed by on a
horse donning a tattered soul and soiled blanket. The only thing missing is the
Russian Revolution and a kitchen full of potatoes.
No matter how much I plead, sleep will not give me
what I want. A chronic insomniac, my body lies down at night, but my brain
accelerates, and there I am, lying in an endless succession of thoughts.
Nearly every night (meaning every night), I lie down with Sam. And the “told you so” people
should kiss my grits here, because it’s undoubtedly my favorite part of each
day, the time when we giggle, tell stories, get in trouble with “Daddy,” and
sing.
He chooses from my repertoire: My Favorite Things, On Top of
Spaghetti, Over the Rainbow, You Are My Sunshine, or Silent Night.
I can barely finish Silent Night without yawning myself, so that one usually does the
trick and Sam is out cold. I doze off
next to him for about 30 minutes, but them—pop—I’m deeply and utterly…awake!
Our dog usually joins the scene, and my fervent attempt
for a few additional winks is waylaid by Waylon’s yawns and baying. I focus on
the poem in my head and the time between Sam's faint breath and Waylon's sniffy
snores. I lie there enjoying it, primarily punishing myself, for morning will
eventually, and most unfortunately, break. Sam will be bussed off to school and
Dr. Zhivago will return to the city. I'll be stuck boiling potatoes. Winter
will continue hanging out. I know I should sleep.
By the time my husband joins us, I've usually been
lying there for two hours. Sam is sprawled out on my pillow, back sleeping
(like I do, when I sleep), allowing me only a sliver of space at the bed's
edge, perhaps one arm pressed against my nose. My head is tilted back off the
pillow, and my legs are gripping somewhere toward the other side because my dog
is too pushing me off, himself lying in a flat running pose, dreaming of
chasing the mail person. I am ultimately uncomfortable, but I'm happy. I'm thinking,
it's quiet, I know I should sleep, but I am a creature of habit.
Matt tiptoes past the bed and I say, "Hi,
Honey." He gasps, "You're not asleep yet?" to which I answer,
"Nope, not yet. I'm thinking of getting up and writing for a while, but now
I'm too tired."
Then begins my Goldilocks routine of trying out all
the beds…sometimes the alchemy of Ambien saves the (next) day.
My name is Jill, and I’ve been an insomniac for
2,190 days.
I should not lie down with my son. I should not, I
should NOT.
But I've logged the number of times friends have
said, "Enjoy it while you can, because soon you'll miss
it." Hell, I already miss it. It's quality time for me, and I make my
living—true living—on not leaving out
any details.
Even with last week’s additional snow break, I
still really loved having my boy around. But Kindergarten has been berry, berry
good to me. He reads, he carries the one in addition problems, and he no
longer says the preschool phrase “Easy Peezey Lemon Squeezey,” because
preschool—come on—was so last year.
I can’t complain.
Oh - time for bed!
