Sleeping and I have always had an interesting relationship.  It comes easy to me and I don't usually have insomnia, but in the hours between 4 and 6, if anything chances to wake me up, I'm up.  My mind begins to spin its daily spin and there really isn't too much of a chance of going back.  Sometimes.  Now and then, but mostly, Bing! here I am, ready to go.

My parents had a deal with me.  I could put out my clothes, get dressed, and read when I woke up at 6.  I just had to be quiet, lest I wake up the smaller people in the house.  Once, I woke up, got dressed, and went out to the couch to read, not realizing that it was 12 midnight.  Sadly, I had to take off my girl scout uniform and go back to bed.

So the early morning hours and I fight a bit.  I don't really want to be conscious so early.  I want to sleep, hide away from all that will come anyway.  At least until 7 or 8.  On a Sunday, I have the dream of sleeping until 9!  10!  When my boys are home, I glare with envy at the closed bedroom door at 11, 12.  They are still asleep.  How do their bodies do it?  My sister used to sleep like that, the sleep of the living dead, well into the day.  Not me.  No, I've written a novel, cleaned the house, gone on a long run, and it's only 10 am.

Babies suited me, as I could get up early.  I used to weep for the idea of sleep, but I truly loved the 2 or 3 am feedings, the quiet of night all around me, the small bubble of them and me, the light humming quietly in the corner.  Around 3 in the afternoon, I'd wish for a Quaalude or something to knock me out, but I really treasured those hours, even as I might have complained about them.

But now I'm actually living with someone who gets up earlier than I do.  He needs about 6 hours of sleep.  Maybe less, though he manages to sneak in tiny cat naps all over the place.  Here it is on a Sunday, and he's been up since five.  He's rebuilt the London Bridge, solved world hunger, cleaned the windows, and it's only 6.30.  I stayed in bed, willing to forget the fact that I deposited a check for 25,000 dollars yesterday that should have been only 2500.  I start thinking about my youngest son's senior year in high school and how I likely ruined it with all my life changing events.  I worry about my online classes, my current writing project, the trip I'm going to take in a couple of weeks, and it's like, damn.  Get up and make the coffee.  I feel a little mean, like I have long, pointy teeth.  I don't want to talk, and I'm slightly evil in my mind.  Sleep!  Sleep!  I long for it, but it runs away like the little shit it is.

So while I haven't rebuilt the London Bridge, I have worked on my classes, written this blog, finished some correspondence via email, and it's 6.34. 

I guess I can sleep sometime this afternoon.  After all, 3 pm will feel like 9.  Bedtime, for god's sake.

Jessica