I remember sleep. I was rarely one to remember my dreams, but I remember my sleep. More specifically, I remember waking from sleep. Waking from sleep in my own good time. Emerging from it slowly like climbing out of a warm bath. Feeling refreshed.
I do not sleep like that anymore.
I sleep with a staccato mark over my head inviting my somnolent song to become sharp and interrupted.
Sometimes I am kept awake by the thoughts in my head. Sometimes I am awakened by a thunder storm. Most often, though, it’s the creaking open of a bedroom door.
“Momma! Can I sleep with you?” A sweet sounding message that too often translates to “Momma! Can I squirm by you and cough on you and jam my feet into your back!” But I say yes because I am tired and I don’t want to argue and I know someday my children will grow up and I will miss the days when they wanted to crawl into bed with me.
Also, I’m a sucker.
Still, sleep does come eventually, even with an uninvited guest, but my rest is usually cut short. On weekdays the time to get ready is expected to creep up too soon, but weekends are rarely better. The unset alarm of “Momma! Momma! Momma!” has no snooze button.
So I get up and force myself sentient with too much coffee. Once fully awake I realize that awake is not so bad. Awake has hugs and snuggling and “I love you, momma!” Awake has an endless supply of crudely drawn pictures “for you momma.” Awake can be better than a dream.
As long as I don’t run out of coffee.
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