Insomnia Post 1: December 18th

So...

Ivy is no longer waking up 3 times a night. But I still am and I have started enjoying the strange bit of quiet time when everyone is asleep. I have found time to read, but I haven't read anything lovely yet. It seems most books are truly terrible. I say that as someone who would love to write a book, but who never will. Billy Lettes's Made In the U.S.A. was quite promising, but it's early forgivable faults manifested into a forced plot and ridiculous happy ending that didn't fit the harsh reality that was so vivid in the beginning. It seems most books have either fantastic beginnings or endings. I wonder why it is so hard to maintain a good story. Similarly, the sleeplessness is enjoyable but I am starting to worry about its ending. There is no real satisfying conclusion. I am a like my own little horror show and it is getting worse. A zombie in the day; a ghost at night. And lazy. Sadie (my adorable fat kitty) just knocked over a glass of milk I left on the end table, and I am in no hurry to clean the mess. I will take care of it before I attempt to slumber again, but only from shame.

My mother has always been an advocate of a good nights sleep. She would say if you can't sleep you can at least rest. I now know that she had no idea what she was talking about. Like everything else in my life, I can't sleep because deep down I don't want to. But if I could manage to sleep tonight, when would I ever have time to write to you, my dear friends--my long lost friends? When would I be able to read the books I do not enjoy? Or secretly eat hidden M&M's simply to pretend to have a secret? I am my own downfall. I lie in bed and think. Not of wants or worries. (Though that may be how it began.) But of what I don't want. And on the top of that list is to lay quietly in bed awaiting a slumber that will not come.

I am in no way blaming Ivy for this. When she woke up several times at night, I would go straight back to sleep. Besides, I don't want to blame my downfalls on Ivy. It isn't fair, though I can easily see how simple it is to blame children. Children alter you. I am not who I was or who I thought I would be. I am simply, "Mom of Ivy". Everything else is secondary.