Eight hours of sleep. Per night, that is. Right. I’ll never get it. And it’s not because of the kids. At least not directly. Lately, once I actually get to sleep, I sleep right on through until early o’clock when the alarm disturbs my slumber.
No, the problem is not the kids. It’s me. It occurred again to me last night that if I want to be asleep by 10:00, I need to start getting ready for bed by like 7:45. Here is the general routine:
-Read just one more blog. Finish wine. Read just one more blog.
-Check on Kate. Tell her how much I love her. Tell her how proud I am of her. Tell her I miss her when she was little. Tell her I wish I could spend another day like that, just me and her. Feel guilty. (There is nothing to feel guilty about, it’s just my own personal form of torture).
-Check on Henry. Take his hearing aids out, take them apart, put them in dry aid kit. Remove umpteen pillows from underneath his head. Cover him up. Kiss him. Tousle his hair. Stare at his freckles. Relish his silence. Tell him I love him. Tell him he’s going to do so well.
-Check on Ella. Soak her in. Smile at her arms wrapped around jellycat so tightly. Wonder if she’s cold. Think maybe I should turn the heater on. The temperature display light doesn’t work anymore so you can’t see the temperature setting so I turn the hall light on. Check setting on heater. Turn hall light off. Start to leave. Decide to touch her foot to make sure she’s still breathing. (I know, I know, I’m a freak.) Ella wakes up. Pick her up. Hold her tight. Smell her hair. Put her back in bed. Kiss her goodnight. Five times. (You have to kiss her once above the railing, and then once through each of the pickets at the end of her bed. It’s not worth fighting. Besides, those are the sweetest kisses ever.)
-Pull back the covers to climb into bed. No sheets. Oh, right. Needed to make the bed this morning. But it’s so much more fun to make it at 10:45 at night when you’re exhausted. Which is why I put it off, of course.
-Make the bed, all the while mumbling nasties to myself.
-Climb into bed. Realize that I forgot to say night-night to William. Debate getting up. Feel guilty.
-Get up, go in to see William. Hold his hand. Tell him he amazes me. Pray to God that he is healthy forever. Think about the “what if it happens again…” Wiggle his loose tooth. Call him “Little Bill.” Tell him I love him.
-Get back into bed.
-Think of something I need to remember.
-Get up to write it down. Can’t find a pencil. Go get one. Can’t find any paper. Go get some. Write it down. Put pencil back. Remember something else. Go get pencil. Write it down. Put pencil back.
-Get into bed.
-Lay there for 45 minutes wondering why I can’t sleep (I need to drink more water…I need to eat better…I need to get to bed earlier…)
-Finally, sleep visits.
-And then someone–who was not me–set the alarm to the “rooster” setting. Which I once thought would be just a terribly humorous thing to do to startle The Man out of sleep some morning. Mm-hmm. Somehow it was less humorous when I wasn’t the one doing it. COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO! That was after about 5 1/2 hours of sleep. And that is not atypical.
In fact, the entire bedtime routine is rather typical for me. So I don’t think I’ll ever get the eight hours of sleep.