Sleep Schism

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!