It's the Little Things

It's 8:15 on a crisp, clear, Saturday morning. The kids are away at Grammy and Pop's and thus, I went to bed entirely too late for my own good last night.

"That's okay, I'll sleep in tomorrow," I thought.

And like clockwork, my body woke up a few minutes after 7. And it wouldn't go back to sleep. My bladder was on the verge of bursting and I was ravenous.

I think I pleaded with my bladder in some kind of a lucid dream. Have you ever done that?

No...don't make me get up. Go away. Stop filling up with pee. Just let me sleep another 20 minutes. (Not entirely different from how I plead with Ella to just let me lay there for a few more minutes when she bounces onto my side of the bed every morning. But I have a stubborn daughter. And as it turns out, an impatient bladder, as well).

Then it was my empty stomach and the burning, ravenous hunger pangs. Oh, for the LOVE. It seemed my body was sabotaging any attempt I made to drift back to sleep. And so I got up and deliriously stumbled first to the bathroom, then downstairs to the coffee pot. Always in that order. I've pretty much resigned myself to the fact that the days of truly good sleep are over. They ended back when I was maybe around 18. Right before I went to college and stayed up late studying and practicing by week, and lost sleep on the weekends in the name of having a social life. Then it was marriage, and my sleep was okay for a while, then pregnancy...and well, the rest, they say, is history. I might be able to salvage a few good years between now and menopause. But my guess is that good sleep will become increasingly chemically-induced, or happenstance. Alignment of certain planets and such.

But I sit here with a cup of french roast and although I'm awake a good two hours earlier than I would like to be, I'm savoring the quiet living room. Relishing that I'm not hearing Dora's annoying, repetitive voice. Breathing in the fresh citrus scent of the new candle I bought, rather than the stench of a freshly squeezed diaper bomb. I went out with a group of fantastic girls last night- one of whom happens to be a dear friend (and who also happens to be getting married NEXT WEEKEND). :-) And even though I only had one glass of wine, I'm surprised that I feel pretty rotten this morning. What's up with that?? I wistfully reflect on the stamina that my 22 year old self had. Where on earth is that intestinal fortitude I had in the midst of vile hangovers- the kind that got me through playing exams, juries, and 8 am classes when a night of drinking seemed to magically resolve itself by 11 a.m. or noon, at the very latest. (This wasn't always the case though, as I learned the hard way one time that's it's never ever EVER a smart idea to drink an entire bottle of cab sav the night before an 8 a.m. clarinet playing exam).

Here it is almost a decade later and this girl right here can have two (ish) glasses of wine and fall asleep in her own puddle of drool on the couch at 10:30 pm, then still somehow feel as though she got hit by a semi the next morning when she's trying to dice up bananas and mini-waffles for her kids. (I mean seriously, why can't they get their own breakfast??) ;-)

I'm not even sure where this post is going. I think I'm just enjoying being able to sit and write without being interrupted. Perhaps the silver lining of the cloud that is my inability to sleep in, is the opportunity to expand my definition of "rest." And for today, it takes the shape of a single blog post, written start to finish in one sitting, in a quiet living room.