Sleep

I woke up this morning at 5:07 a.m. And I'd gone to bed just a little after 10 p.m. No babies in the middle of the night. It's a beautiful thing, sleep that is. Every night as I fall into bed, I think to myself, "This is my favorite part of day!" And it's been perfect sleeping weather this week. We've left the windows open and enjoyed the cool night air. Thankfully, it's the middle of the week so we haven't been jarred awake by the sound of party-ers gathered at the frat house a couple of doors down. No kidding. Some young punk of a kid, just out of college, inherits his grandfather's house when he dies, and now it's party central. Late some Saturday night, I just want to fling open the front door to see them all doing lines of coke in the middle of the living room. That or they've got their own crystal meth lab up and running. I called the police a couple of weekends ago. Either I'm getting old and crotchety or I'm just sleep deprived. Maybe both. But I figure when you're awoken out of a deep sleep by young twenty somethings yelling at each other in the middle of the night in the middle of the street, that's a violation of some inalienable right. 

Our older kids know that it's the death knell if they, for some reason, need us in the middle of the night. My, how self sufficient they become when the sun goes down. Several nights ago, though, Camille opened the door to their bedroom and started screaming for me. "MOMMY!" I was convinced (mistakenly) in my sleepy state that I had a baby at my breast so I elbow Ryan out of bed.  He shuffles down the stairs. She holds up her white blankie. "Is this a white rabbit?" she asks in between sobs. He assures her it's not, and she returns to her bed only then to ask, "Where is my blankie?" "In your hand." And she falls back to sleep.