No Rest For the Wicked Weary

For the past year, I’ve had the sneaking suspicion that there is a giant sleep-depriving conspiracy being waged against me by as of yet unknown forces. With every sub-eight hour night of sleep, I’m more and more convinced that it’s true. Quite often the phrase “no rest for the wicked” runs through my head. And I think, “Am I wicked?” Perhaps this is so but maybe if I got some more sleep I wouldn’t be so damn wicked. Then my bleary head thinks, “no, it’s “no rest for the weary’”, which just seems mean. Why not? Don’t the weary need it most? Come on.

I would like to blame my children. That seems to be the conventional and popular choice. And it is true, they do interrupt my sleep from time to time, but they aren’t infants anymore and generally sleep through the night. Except, of course, when I go to bed early, giddy with the prospect of a good night’s sleep and manage to actually fall asleep. Inevitably, someone will wake up about an hour and a half after I’ve fallen asleep, crying. He’s sick or she’s scared, he’s wet or she’s lost (I have sleepwalkers in my house which is something I wouldn’t wish on anyone. They’re freaky). Then I will be up for the next 2 hours, even if they’re back to sleep in 10 minutes. The adrenaline from being woken out of a sound sleep and running down the stairs to deal with whatever crisis will keep my heart racing long after the crisis is over. Not that I’m trying to be insensitive. Truly, I’m not. It’s like they just know. If I stay up later and accept that I’ll get less sleep, they’ll sleep like the little angels that they are. Either way, I can’t win.

On those rare nights when my children have somehow missed the signs that I’m going to get a good night’s sleep, the cat takes over. I’m quite certain they have an agreement. He sees the lights go out before 11:00 and that’s his cue to stampede (yes, stampede. I am not exaggerating. How a 15 pound cat can sound like an elephant is beyond me) through the house, tearing from room to room in some sort of schizophrenic frenzy. When he’s done with that, he’ll find the top to a pop bottle or a plastic spoon that my son has dropped on the floor, send it skittering across the kitchen floor and charge after it, sounding even more like an elephant. At this point I get up to find out what the hell he is doing.

After I work myself into tizzy chasing him around to get him to KNOCK IT OFF, I will again lie in bed, the adrenaline coursing through my veins. This is apparently an indication that he should come and lie on my head or my chest or in the crook of my legs so I can’t move. This 15 pound cat weighs 50 pounds when he’s in bed. It’s like the reverse water effect. I battle his dead weight, trying to get comfortable and reclaim the covers he has somehow usurped. I look at the clock and, of course, it’s well past midnight. Apparently feeling that his job is now done he settles down and I lie there wondering why me until he begins to snore. Yes, cats snore.

I have all but given up on getting a good night’s sleep at home but I still harbor the fantasy that when I go out of town without the kids (and the cat) that I’ll get some uninterrupted sleep. It’s a fantasy because who am I kidding? Something is always wrong with the bed. It’s too hard or the sheets are scratchy. It’s too hot in the room or too bright. Something.

This weekend I had high hopes of getting some sleep. My husband and I were in Minot for a basketball tournament he was playing in (which is really a whole other story). No kids or cats, don’t have to get up early. Pure leisure. Yeah, right. First of all, the room was out of that Geico commercial where the house was built too small. And of course in a small room there would have to be a small bed. To say that it was a double bed would be generous. Let’s just say it was cozy. But despite the coziness factor (which isn’t a horrible thing. I do like my husband), the bed was tolerable. So once again, I entertained the idea of some sleep. It was short lived. About an hour after I fell asleep, the first group of drunkards came in from the bar. And you know how drunk folks are, they just can’t talk loud enough and they can’t slam their hotel room door hard enough. But okay, they are in their room, minor glitch. I can go back to sleep now. Fifteen minutes later the second intoxicated crowd came in. And about 15 minutes after that, the third, followed by the fourth a short time after that. What? Are they on a schedule? Can you see where this conspiracy theory starts to seem plausible? Because I was up late the night before and there were no drunk people anywhere.

Again, it was 1:30. I lay there until two just to make sure all our hallmates were home. It seemed like I had just fallen asleep when my husband said to me at 8:00, “I can’t sleep.” We have nothing to get up for! Leave me alone. All I can think is why me? I’m a good person, don’t I deserve some sleep? Now I know there is a conspiracy against me.

Paranoid? Perhaps, but I’m too tired to care.