Those who suffer from insomnia are cursing me. But to make matters worse—and I think this is proof that God does not exist—my superpower is wasted on me. I love to sleep, but I don't want to sleep. I'm like the naturally curly-haired child whose mop is the envy of all those stricken with straight hair, yet all (s)he wants is to get rid of the curls.
A few weeks ago, I made a promise to Laura that I'd go to bed by midnight. Her concern for my well-being was well-founded: I had regularly been staying up 'til 1:00 or sometimes 2:00 a.m. and then rising at 6 a.m. to start a new day. I'd tell myself I could handle it, but the fact is that the cumulative effect by Friday meant that I was noticeably shorter with Piper and Susannah. I knew the wisdom of Laura's concern: no one can keep going like this without collapsing. I agreed.
My resolve lasted barely three weeks. Now I'm back to my usual pattern: after the girls go to bed, I am filled with energy and I find any combination of television-watching, reading, and writing that keeps my mind busy.
I know the research out there: the benefits of sleep are legion. If I just committed to 7-8 hours a night I would see vast improvement in my creativity, attention span, concentration, productivity.... But I'd have to go to sleep! I'd have to miss out on conscious life! When Laura notices that I'm trying to fit another activity into my already dreadfully overcommitted day, she tells me that "You can't manufacture time." And she's right, but when I stay awake at night, squeezing the last bit of juice from today and stealing some from tomorrow, I can convince myself that I have gained a couple of hours. I can write another blog post (gotta stick to my NaBloPoMo guns!), finish another chapter (how will the character get out of that mess?), clean the kitchen (the morning goes so much easier when I start with a blank slate ... and countertop), AND catch up on those back-episodes of Bill Moyer's Journal all before I finally wake up my wife, who has been fast asleep on the couch, and head off to bed, hoping she isn't awake enough to look at a clock and realize that it's 2:15 a.m.
Now that I’m the parent of two energetic, thoroughly exhausting children, I should be dead to the world by 10 p.m., on the couch, face pointed to the ceiling, mouth-breathing, with Jon Stewart sardonically grinning at me. I regularly implore (read: nag) my kids about the glories of sleep, about how much better the next day goes if they get their customary night’s rest (currently hovering around eleven hours … eleven hours!). But I do not even pretend to practice what I preach. "Stay here in bed, Daddy," she says. "Daddy has 'work' to do," I reply with not a small modicum of guilt, because I know what I really want to do is catch another segment of "Cheating Death with Dr. Stephen Colbert, DFA." And even after the TV itself has given up the ghost and turned to the dreamscape of infomercials, I'm still getting in one last round of Bejeweled, one last check of Facebook, fully aware that I will drag through the afternoon at work tomorrow. I will probably have to pick up a 5-minute power-nap on my floor. I will consider caffeinated tea or coffee but probably won't give in. (Yes, through all this little sleep, I have also given up caffeine.) I will stifle the yawns in meetings with my colleagues. But I'm not worried about that right now.
First, I'll need to hear Laura beg me with a sadness tinged with anger to please get some more rest tomorrow, and she'll give me the same lecture I'd given to a daughter several hours earlier. And then I'll finally close my eyes, and even as I'm losing consciousness, I'll think to myself: "God, this feels so good, this bed, this feels really wonderful, I really, really need to get to bed earlier because this just feels so--"
And the thought won't get finished, because Laura is nudging my shoulder: "Honey, it's 6 a.m." And before I'm aware, I'm in the bathroom putting on my robe. Lather, rinse, repeat.
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