It Was A *Particularly* Vain Hope For This Holiday

Every holiday has its traditional icons, but one of the least talked about icons is the “holiday possum.”  Strongly related to the “weekend possum” and the “day-off possum,” the holiday possum remains perfectly still in bed, mimicking sleep in the often vain hope that the child(ren) of the house will leave them be for at least a few minutes more.

Perhaps I’m Destined To Be The One To Write This Book . . . AFTER I’ve Gotten More Rest

Something fiction involving parenthood actually prepares you for:  The nigh-inevitable “child not wanting to be alone coming into your room in the middle of the night” moment.

Something some fiction involving parenthood sort of prepares you for:  The moment when you child begins do their best to recreate their room in yours so they can sleep better when they do finally go to sleep and let you sleep again as well.

Something fiction involving parenthood tends to gloss over:  That moment when you are pressed against the wall and tangled in a Frankenstein-like creation of covers, some of you hot and some of you cold, but all of you unwilling to move lest you wake the child that has kept you awake for over an hour now.

Something I know fiction involving parenthood has never mentioned:  The moment when at long last you get back to sleep as well and lapse into a fitful dream involving creepy crawly things and your child brushes their foot against you at the perfect time to startle you awake once more.

Making It Over The Lake (Part Three)

Lala, you see, had earlier stumbled into the same basic situation that I had just stumbled into, complete with the same sense of disorientation and confusion, but with one important difference.  When she came upon my son, he turned to her and asked one of his reflexive questions whenever he knows I’m nearby, but doesn’t know which precise square meter of the house I happen to be at that moment in time.  He asked her, “Where’s my dad?”

In that moment the strangeness of the situation took on a decidedly dark turn for her since she didn’t know where I was.

She figured it all out pretty quickly, I’m happy to say, but the whole experience left us both on edge, a lot more on edge than we would have been had I just been hit by my usual “flying alarm clock.”

But at least we made it over the lake, right?

Making It Over The Lake (Part Two)

Then, as I suspect most parents would since I didn’t sense any problems, I went back to sleep.  (It’s rare, but my son does on occasion sleep . . . not “late” exactly, but later than his norm.)

Waking up again (still sans pouncing) was a disorienting experience though.

I looked at the time, and though I still didn’t sense anything “wrong,” something was decidedly . . . different; I just couldn’t consciously put my finger on what it was.  So I stumbled out of bed, passed Lala on the living room couch without even noticing she was there, and into the family room to behold my son quietly watching his movie.  (It was the sound of his movie I was too sleepy at the time to identify before this point.)

To say I was confused here would be understating it.  This may be hard for some without young children to understand, but for me this was a like finding the dog in the process of cleaning up after herself, then her looking me in the eye and saying, “I’ve got this.  Don’t worry about it.”  Far from unpleasant, just profoundly . . . unexpected.

I got off easy though.  It was Lala who hit the tree on this one.

Making It Over The Lake (Part One)

The “lake” of my recent years has been sleep, and while my son has, for the moment at least, stopped waking me in the middle of the night, he currently functions for me as what others have described as “the world’s worst alarm clock,” and I never know how far over the lake of sleep I’ll make it before I’m rudely awakened by him pouncing on me.  Even on the days I get to “sleep in,” in practical terms what that really means is that I get to go back to sleep after the pounce.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday his mother not only successfully intercepted him pre-pounce (Having only occasionally managed to intercept him myself, I know how difficult this trick is.), but convinced him to let me sleep unless he actually needed something.  He’s certainly old enough to do this by now, so she left for work while he watched a movie.  Not knowing any of this, I heard her leave (I usually do), and waited for the pounce.

And waited.

And waited . . .

I Suggested She Sleep On It

“Lately I’ve been noticing that despite any plans I have to sleep earlier, I don’t actually end up making it to bed until it’s 12:21 precisely,” L’s Mother told me last night.  “I don’t know if that’s significant or just palindromic.”

Put Another Way, I’m Going Back To Bed Now

Sleep is that golden chain that ties health and our bodies together.

– Thomas Dekker

Judging By The Look Of Their Mugs

I just realized that I have started to judge if it’s a good time to ask someone around here for something by how full the mug in front of them is. The fuller the mug, the less time they’ve had to sit in peace to drink it, and the more likely I’ll get a better response if I give them a bit more time before asking.

(On an unrelated note, I really need to start making Candles & Curses my evening thoughts, not my morning thoughts. Lately my morning thoughts all seem to be revolving around sleep, coffee and/or the lack thereof . . .)

Even When It’s NOT Innuendo

I don’t care what anybody else says, sometimes the sexiest thing a woman can whisper to you, particularly in the morning, is “Would you like to sleep in?”

And It’s DEFINITELY To Early For Me To Sleep Again . . .

Sleep – the most beautiful experience in life – except drink.

– W.C. Fields