The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast.
~William Shakespeare, Macbeth
Is it just me, or is there simply not enough sleeping taking place?
I've heard from women who are currently suffering hot flashes, violent mood swings, and the need to shave twice daily (and I don't mean their legs!), that sleep is a fickle bed fellow. It scares me. It truly does. I mean, one of my very favorite things to do at night is sleep. If sleep somehow escapes me...what will I do?
I suppose I could go up and walk the hallway with FIL who gets up at any given time during the deepest, darkest of night to walk (on my head) off his leg cramps. He's been known to scrub his shower in pre-dawn hours. Maybe I could join him in his living room and we could watch an old black and white western movie that he has seen 2,356,902 times. Sadly, watching a film, any film, with FIL involves less actual watching and more of his rambling, griping, complaining voice as he bemoans the state of his life and personal affairs.
If only FIL would sleep like a normal person. Than perhaps I would slumber through the midnight hours without a care in the world.
Not to say that I haven't had trouble holding sleep to his end of the bargain from time to time. It isn't always FIL who keeps me awake. I recall many, many a night when I would lie awake and listen to Beloved snore or listen to the cat stalk whatever it was that he was stalking.
Sometimes on a lark, the cat would regurgitate a hairball or plastic that he had digested earlier. I assure you that no call to action could spur me on like the sound of Dingo the wonder kitty puking somewhere in the dark. Visions of cat vomit oozing between my toes always gave speed to my feet as I went in search of his watery trap.
There were other times when the cat (who would be king...I'm just sayin') would get busy in his cat box and dig as if there was no tomorrow. I would lay in my warm little bed and listen as he excavated his way to China. Minutes, literal minutes, would tick by, as he scratched and dug. Finally, all would be quiet and then my nose would be assaulted by a stench so foul that I'm certain I have lung cancer from one mere whiff.
For you see, although my little kitty poo was busily digging his way to Asia, he somehow forgot to bury the deposit he made. Once again, I would fly from my bed and deal with business that was not my own.
From time to time I will lay awake and listen to the coyotes. Nights when they howl and cry remind me of Little House on the Prairie, when Laura and family stayed awake listening to those furry scavengers circle around their shanty on the prairies of Oklahoma (or Kansas or wherever they were). I hear my dog growl outside my window and wonder if he growls in warning or if he's just ticked because they are keeping him awake.
Many times, I lay in bed and talk to God. I admit to Him that I'm not all I should be and that I'm sorry for those wicked words/thoughts/actions of the day. I pray for those I love and for those who hate me. I ask Him questions about this or that and sometimes laugh when He reminds me of my own foolishness.
Then my thoughts spread out to engulf cares and worries of this life. My mind plays a slide show of pictures of Soldier Mommy, my Omi, and the days busyness. I ponder the coming day and realize that time is short and the hour late. The little voice in my head (whom I seldom listen to, just so you know) reminds me that I'll be crabby in the morning if I don't get to sleep.
And indeed I will.
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