It's just not happening.
I'm sure the reason why sleep is hugging the dust ruffle instead of curling up behind my knees, tented in feathers, is because it is summer. I want to go to bed, to cast the worries and cares of the day from my hair like pearls, the marbled bead then used to pay it's way across the ocean to dreaming. Instead I wander the house, wipe down the counters of cat hair, check the doors, realise yet again I haven't dusted the bookshelf/painted the wall/watered the valiantly struggling yet probably doomed tomato plants, and go kiss the boys a final time goodnight. The boys are oblivious, watching TV instead of in their rooms. Doughshis' cowlicks sticking up like curls, his arms and legs a hidden knot of undetermined sleep. Marko's nose is practically against his chest, two pillows standing guard behind him on the couch. I know better than to move anything regardless of how uncomfortable he looks, because he will wake before I leave the family room growling against the light and my interference. A lesson learnt so long ago: let sleeping babies lie.
If I wait a few minutes I can carry him up to bed and he will pretend to stay asleep. He's not heavy, I've been carrying him up to bed since he was ten pounds. Now that he's seventy it feels almost the same. Like the man carrying the pig up the mountain everyday in the story "Holes" - I've grown stronger each day.
The hunt with sleep continues, a slow creep into other rooms and routines. I sit, the curve of the mattress edge reflects the slope of my shoulders, and tiredness sags at my hips. C'mon, I suggest, time for bed. Prayers folded into whispers, I pull myself up, impossibly far, further, kick off my Jammie's and face-plant the pillow. A moment to pause, my head singing a Hallelujah! and I roll to my left side, a night-whale searching for air and whatever book is balanced nearby.
All is well I'll look at some pages before I get to the end and realize I don't know what I just read, stretch for the light switch and breathe out long and slow into the sudden dark night. Some nights, like the night before last, I'll have struggled to keep my eyelids open, until I give myself a time out and put myself to bed. No putting around, no more drinks of water or double checks on laundry or food for Molly - the house is dark, clothes are left in piles on the floor, and I'm muttering against the pillows well before the cuckoo clock can bang on about it being 11 o'clock.
Putting myself to bed can be the meanest, kindest thing I can do. Even if I do spontaneously wake up at 4 am the next morning, for no reason. Except for maybe being used to not getting enough sleep.
The hunt with sleep continues, a slow creep into other rooms and routines. I sit, the curve of the mattress edge reflects the slope of my shoulders, and tiredness sags at my hips. C'mon, I suggest, time for bed. Prayers folded into whispers, I pull myself up, impossibly far, further, kick off my Jammie's and face-plant the pillow. A moment to pause, my head singing a Hallelujah! and I roll to my left side, a night-whale searching for air and whatever book is balanced nearby.
All is well I'll look at some pages before I get to the end and realize I don't know what I just read, stretch for the light switch and breathe out long and slow into the sudden dark night. Some nights, like the night before last, I'll have struggled to keep my eyelids open, until I give myself a time out and put myself to bed. No putting around, no more drinks of water or double checks on laundry or food for Molly - the house is dark, clothes are left in piles on the floor, and I'm muttering against the pillows well before the cuckoo clock can bang on about it being 11 o'clock.
Putting myself to bed can be the meanest, kindest thing I can do. Even if I do spontaneously wake up at 4 am the next morning, for no reason. Except for maybe being used to not getting enough sleep.
