Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Sleep is NOT Optional?

Sadness is banished for the time being. But holy crap-shoot, Batman! It has been replaced by a smorgasbord of other emotions. At least with "sad" I knew what I was doing. All right, all right; no, I didn't! I admit to being pretty inexpert at dealing with "sad". But now; depending on the time of day, my brain hydration level, the tides off the coast of Greenland and the brand of staple I'm using, I could be feeling anything. Joy, sometimes, briefly. Amazement. FEAR! Sometimes foreboding fear; sometimes leap-into-flight fear. Vertigo. Calm confidence (leave the driving to me!); bone-aching tension.

Sometimes when I'm thinking about my life, I catch my hands unconsciously extending outward and wonder what I think I'm reaching for. Thank goodness I work in a field that requires freaky gestures all day long. If anyone were to ask me, I would NOT say, "I am reaching toward my future." (That would be weird.) I would say, "I'm acting out shopping for produce." (That is totally normal.) I was standing under the shower just now and found my soapy hands sliding up my arms, across my shoulders, down my sides. "Am I the same person that I was? Those are my elbows...that is my neck..." I am not a giddy person. Practical! Stay-the-course! So, I think, "Can I do it?" [worried, raised eyebrows] "Yes, I can." [brows down] Or I can try and keep trying until I find the right path. [one brow up, a la Jack Black]

I felt VERY giddy this evening during class. Physically strange. My heartbeat felt irregular and I was catching my breath. This is unaccustomed, although there have been a lot of physical signs of stress. Then I remembered the probable truth about alien giddiness: I had only had three hours of sleep last night, and three the night before.

I know, I know... I'm not happy about it either.

I don't have insomnia. Right now, I'm exceedingly sleepy. I am alone on my big bed, under my down comforter. I still sleep on "my" side, rather then in the middle. The streets are silent, the light on my nightstand is soft. I have had a hot shower, so I am toasty. My hair is already drying into a higgledy-piggledy jumble of cow licks and rooster tails. (What's with the barnyard metaphors, by the way?) The lotion I put on my face smells like spiced plums. Sleep is not the problem. It's going to bed that's the problem.

Tonight, Si told me that he was concerned that he was spending a lot of time reading books about divorce, and that I was not doing the same. Is this wise? Ugh. I was slumped at the kitchen counter chasing a dead ant around the bottom of my teacup with my spoon. (Yeah, we have a few ants at the moment. Where are they coming from? Don't they know it's winter?). I pointed out that I had just got home from a 14-hour work day (a lie! I only worked 13 hours and spent an hour shooting the bull with Martina.) and could be forgiven for not diving into a tome on mediation vs. litigation. NOT the correct answer. He stomped off. Night, night, Si. (Si. Sigh.)


So, what's more interesting than going to bed? Besides getting the ant out of my tea?

Pondering my future! Tomorrow, I really have to compose my collection of ideas for the "Eleanors". And the ones for myself. My dreams for the rest of my life. The more I think,the more I see doors that can and will open if I am careful, sensitive, loving and smart. Hey! I can manage those things on good day! With a little more sleep.

Reading the newspaper! But this time of year I get hung up on the legislature, and wondering why our governor has to be such a dumb fuck. With only a couple more hours of sleep, I could govern this state better, and with a less goof-ball smile to boot. But lots more gestures.

Guadalupe paperwork! Although this is getting better. I'm almost out from under! Shut up! I know I've said that before; but this is the real thing! That's why I was up so late last night. I was on FIRE! Another collection: all the things I will do when I have slain the paperwork monster. I'll get back to my visionary, lustrous-haired, goddess-like self. Or at least get busy training Johnny Depp to take Mark's place. At the moment, all Johnny does is follow me around with puppy-like devotion, wanting to know if I'd like him to caress my shoulders. Tiiiiiiiiiresome.

Nate's pee-alarm! Yes, Nate is slaying the bed wetting monster. He has an amusing alarm pinned to his pajamas that goes, BRAAAAP! BRAAAAAP! and vibrates the moment any moisture shows up in his undies. At first I thought the alarm pack went in his pants, and I thought, "Man, Nate is gonna LOOOOVE this." But a little sensor does that job, after I clip it to the fabric inside. This has been his initiative, so its pretty easy for me. I got a book, which we read together. "Chapter 5: Fun and Easy Home Experiments to Measure Your Bladdar Size". If only we had heard of this BEFORE Sara's science fair. I layer his bed with towels and plastic sheeting, so if he has a soaker in the wee hours, he can just whip the top towel onto the floor and jump back into bed on the dry towel underneath. And after he has run to the bathroom and peed, it's my job to reset the sensor and clip it back into place. This mean that I get a nightly visit in the, um... wee hours.

"Mama! I made it to the bathroom without wetting at all! Well, just a drop."

Uh? "Thasss goo', Sweetie. Hol' on."

I turn the light on and squint in the glare.

"Wha' time issit?"

"4:45!" (He's so perky! Geeze.) "I did good, huh?"

"You did really, really grea', Sweetie. C'mere."

I fumble for the sensor and waistband of his "shark zone!" tighty-whities. (By the way, WHY don't they make men's briefs that say fun stuff like, "shark zone!"? Well, they probably do... I'm still on the lookout for pirate ones that say, "Argh, Matey! Prepare to be Boarded!") I wake up just enough to pinch a tiny piece of fabric into the sensor without pinching anything else. He always worries, though. ("Look out, Mom! Whoa! Hey, are you awake?")

"There we go. All set. Nigh' nigh'." Lights out and I am back asleep before he can cross the hall.

Now, let me be clear about something. Lots of things are my fault because of the divorce. The fact that Si accidentally put an incorrect lift ticket price on the resort website? (Sorry, everyone. No mobbing. He took it down.) My fault. I'm distracting him with divorce. All Nate's nice sweatpants have already been worn this week; the remainder have holes in the knees, so he has to wear jeans instead? My fault. I am neglecting his sweat-pant needs because of divorce. Yesterday, Nate told me that the Nintendo game he ordered off Amazon arrived late because I was divorcing Dad. I hope you will forgive me if I laughed out loud at that one. But no one blames me for the bed-wetting. It predates my run off the rails.

Sara doesn't condemn me too much. The child has a one-track mind regarding our future.

She went to the Humane Society with Girl Scouts the other night, and returned with shining eyes and the inability to speak anything but baby-talk. "Mommy? There was the cutest widdle kitty at the shelter! He on'y had one ear. He was wooking at me and he said, 'Take me home! I wuv you!'" "Oh yeah? So you were BOTH talking baby-talk?" "Yeah. Mom, I realize this is totally inappropriate to bring up right now, but, when you have your own place..." Yeah, Sara, we can get a cat.

2 comments:

gibbonesque said...

I hope you are going to call the cat 'Vincent'.

Kate said...

@ Gibbonesque: Got it in one. The shelter has names him "Van Gough". :)