I’m starting to suspect there’s something wrong with me. I’m not getting more than six hours of sleep, and I have no urge to nap. I’m up late with The Husband, and I’m up early with the boys. With Aidan’s randomly short nap schedule, I’m always on the move. Even when The Husband was away for the Chargers’ game, I still stayed up late . . . cleaning.
Now I’m no stranger to living on little sleep. I mastered it in college, writing papers at 2 am, after everyone was asleep. Then there were the years of Evan waking through the night. But I’m no longer as young as I was, and I’m beginning to wonder how bad this no sleep is for me.
I stopped going to bed at a decent time earlier this summer when my world shattered around me. I feared laying in bed, thinking, analyzing, worrying, and basically driving myself crazy. I feared nightmares and dreams. I feared that all I would want to do would sleep for weeks until my soul healed. I couldn’t do that. So I worked myself to exhaustion and crumbled into bed to sleep deep enough to forget my dreams when I woke to the first cry or “Mommy” in the morning.
It seemed like a good plan until now when I’m starting to get only five hours of sleep and I feel fine. Now I wonder if next month I’ll be down to four. I wonder how this will affect my mind and body. Will this keep me from making a right choice or react in a helpful way?
At least, on the bright side, my house looks great, the boys are happy, and The Husband I are actually sitting down and talking about something other than kids, bills, or politics. And I’m doing some soul searching. Now if I could only cram more blogging and writing, life would be golden. Oh, and some more sleep.