Sleep

My sleep habits seem to be defined by stages in my life--by my current priorities and worries. How well I sleep, how often I sleep, how many hours I sleep--all impacted by what events are important in my life at the time. I remember being in college and pulling those "all-nighters" during finals week. Or meeting someone new at a party and staying up until all hours of the morning talking and flirting and perhaps heading to the International House of Pancakes (open 24 hours) for coffee and Belgian waffles. Finding a potential "Mr. Right," staying up all night laughing with and confiding in the closest set of Gal Pals I have ever had, and getting good enough grades to keep my scholarship, were the priorities for which I would go without sleep back then.

Eventually, children came along, and I slept the sleep of an expectant mother--someone who was "new at this." I was awakened every night at 2 am while pregnant because the growing baby inside me always chose that time of night to be most active--a portent of the fact that once he was born, he would awaken at this time of night for the first six months of his life wanting an additional feeding or some attention. I never minded (because I was "new at this," and it felt good to be "needed"). Then I progressed to the next sleep phase--the phase of "Working Mother Determined to Breastfeed Despite Having a Full-Time Job." Even after my babies started sleeping through the night, I still got up at 2 am to dutifully express breastmilk for them to have during the day while I was away. I'd go back to sleep for a few hours before getting up to start my workday, feeding the baby on the couch before I left, wearing nylons, high heels, business-like skirt, and my pajama top. During the night, I could awaken in a split second at the slightest sound, yet fall back to sleep in mere seconds, too. Nothing kept me awake except for my childrens' needs. Once they were satisfied, I slipped right back into dreamland, although this often meant that babies slept curled beside me in my bed because I couldn't be bothered to put them back in their cribs. I couldn't bear the "cry it out" method either--I worked full-time--I needed my sleep, so Mom's bed was baby's bed because it was just easier that way. Baby #2 came along, and while her older brother had been banished into his own toddler bed, there were those nights when he wandered back in to Mom's bed, where we slept as a family through fevers and head colds, bad dreams, and separation anxiety. I had a husband who worked the night shift, so there was always plenty of room in the bed for the 3 of us, although hindsight tells me that, over time, my children, my husband, and I began to exist in separate groups of 3--again, perhaps, a portent of things to come.

My children have never been "easy" at bedtime--they were always wanting "one more story" or a song, or a glass of water, or needing to tell me about something "important." Because I was afflicted with Working Mother's Guilt, I always acquiesced because I knew that bedtime was the one time of day that my children had my undivided attention. When I arrived home from work, their father left for work, so I was running errands, doing housework, and fixing dinner without help, all while trying to keep an eye on them. I was unable to provide them with my full attention--I was always multi-tasking or pre-occupied or distracted. Bedtime became their one opportunity to have me to themselves. It was the only time I sat down and stopped thinking about other things, and that was okay, even if it meant that my kids' bedtime would begin at 9 pm but always truly be 10 pm, even on a school night. That extra hour of their bedtime routine is important, and I don't have any desire to change it, even though it means my bedtime becomes midnight or later, and I survive on 5 hours of sleep a night.

Now that my children are older, the hours between 10 pm and 5 am are no longer dictated by their needs--night-time feedings, childhood illnesses, and nightmares--leaving me free to sleep uninterrupted for those 5 hours, right? Wrong. Because now I'm a grown-up, full of grown-up responsibilities, and I am shouldering them single-handedly with no one to share the burden. My restless mind is tortured by sleep. I would lie in bed, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep because of the worry--the fears. If I did manage to fall asleep, I had dreams that bothered me--filled with confrontations with two men in particular who left me with much unresolved anger--anger I was either unable to express or prevented from expressing. It would be manifested in my dreams, and I would awaken, agitated, pissed off, and ready to fight, even though the altercation was completely fictitious. In my dreams, I got to scream, and yell, and say ugly things I would never have said while awake. But, those confrontations were not helpful--they only left me upset--too bothered to go back to sleep because they were not real. If I were worried about a particular problem--like money--I would wake up, groggy, and not thinking clearly, start thinking about the problem and then, because I was only half-awake, the problem would become horrifying and insurmountable, and would keep me awake. I would eventually fall back asleep, and once I had really woken up, had my shower, and thought the problem through, I realized that my night-time panic was irrational and ridiculous, and that my sleep-deprived state had given that particular problem far more weight than it deserved. And I would be angry that I had been deprived of sleep that I undoubtedly needed because I don't possess logic and reason at 2 am.

So, for the last few years I survived on 2 or 3 hours of sleep most nights, catching up occasionally, from sheer exhaustion, a few days each week--usually on the weekends. That began to change last summer, when both my custody battle and my money issues were finally resolved. My sleep patterns changed yet again. I sleep 5 hours a night without any problems at all. I have no trouble falling asleep because my worries are, for the most part, under control. I still have the occasional "freak-out" moment like Thursday night when the hot water line to my kitchen sink burst and flooded my kitchen, and for some odd reason, I was panicked about getting a hold of my landlord the next day to have it fixed. Why I was so reluctant to call my landlord is beyond me, but at 2 am it seemed like a horrible thing. I was worried he might be out of town, and I'd have to call a plumber and pay an exorbitant amount of money before I could have hot water again. I was pissed that I was so flipping "helpless" and ignorant about plumbing, that I had to call my father to figure out how to turn off the water. I was feeling desperately like I needed to buy a house of my own--and SOON, but I'm not ready because I haven't saved up enough money yet, and the idea of packing all of our stuff up and physically moving it is daunting. I was angry at the houses for sale in my neighborhood that are 25 years old, made by a cheap-ass builder, and they all have hot water lines and cheap pipes that burst for no good reason, leaving me with no option but to buy a more expensive house in a newer subdivision with a dinky lot and a backyard devoid of landscaping that I will hate. These are my 2 to 4 am ramblings.

But last night, I slept okay. My landlord came over and fixed the water line while I was at work. The kids are at their dad's for the weekend. I spent the evening with some other Cub Scout moms, drinking Hurricanes and assembling all of our sons' various patches, badges, neckerchiefs, and other Cub Scout memorabilia into lovingly-arranged shadow boxes, to be "presented" to them when they have their "cross-over" Ceremony next week and become bona fide Boy Scouts. (So, you see, there was a plus side to my kitchen flood because while frantically yanking things out from under the sink, trying to locate the valves to shut off the water, I found the Pat O'Brien's Hurricane Mix I had purchased in New Orleans last summer! Admittedly, my son's shadow box is not yet completed, but I've got a week to finish that up without being under the influence of rum.) I slept a full 8 hours last night and my dreams consisted of mundane things like walking past my bathroom mirror and catching a glimpse of myself, only I was thinner and in better shape--perhaps a portent of my future self, now that I am diligently trying to exercise daily. In another dream I had a glimpse of the back of my friend M's head, and his hair was thinning, and I teased him about it. Again, perhaps a portent of things to come?

But at least my sleep is filled with peaceful, non-threatening images, for a change. Everyday things that really could happen, instead of crazy "drama" that I hope has been banished from my life, leaving me free to sleep, without interruption, for the first time in a decade.

Fridge Space

I've been reading Sunday Scribblings for years--even before I actually had a blog here. I was always too intimidated to post an entry of my own. I write professionally for a living, but I write reports and briefing papers and executive summaries. Facts. Data. Active voice. There is nothing creative about my writing. I am not clever or metaphorical or symbolic. But "Fridge Space" is a topic I can write about because I can tell you the facts, provide you with data.

I have a "Mom Fridge." It is covered with magnets from all my various work trips: the nation's capital, Seattle WA, Portland OR, Atlanta GA, Jacksonville FL, St. Augustine FL, New Orleans LA, Cincinatti OH, Phoenix AZ, Milwaukee WI, Austin TX, Baltimore MD. This summer I will acquire St Louis MO. My magnets hold nothing up, with the exception of the Atlanta magnet which is atop a list of phone numbers--people my kids should call if something ever happens to me. My favorite magnet is one I got on my last trip to Washington. I visited the International Spy Museum and picked out a magnet that contains the words from an actual memo issued by the U. S. Navy back during WWI. It reads: "Beware of Female Spies! Women are being employed by the enemy to secure information from Navy men, on the theory that they are less liable to be suspected than male spies. Beware of inquisitive women as well as prying men. SEE EVERYTHING, HEAR EVERYTHING, SAY NOTHING concerning any matter bearing upon the work of the Navy. Silence is safety."

I'm not sure why I found this to be so amusing. I guess because I like to think of myself as a clever (and dangerous) woman now that I've learned not to put up with anyone's crap anymore. I'm older, I'm wiser, and I have learned that men my age have things to hide and can't be trusted (admittedly, that statement could probably apply to me as well--I have things to hide and can't be trusted, either). My Best Guy Friend told me once, "You know, it took getting divorced for you to finally grow a backbone and learn how to stand up for yourself, but now nobody will ever want you because you are just too bitchy." I laughed and laughed! So be it! (Of course, this is also the same Guy Friend who told me I could only date "much older men" from now on because "women age in dog years." Sometimes I wonder why we are still friends...)

But, I digress...this entry is supposed to be about my fridge.

The inside of my fridge contains certain items that are ALWAYS there--the things I purchase every week at the grocery store without fail: milk, fruit juice, eggs, real butter (no margarine--I do things right), yogurt, tortillas, lunch meat (always smoked turkey, sometimes honey ham), cheese slices, cheddar cheese, broccoli, apples, broccoli-slaw, carrots, green onions, celery, and salsa. And then there are those other staples that I buy every couple of months: mustard, mayonnaise, worcestershire sauce, BBQ sauce, ketchup, soy sauce, raspberry jam, grape jelly, ranch dressing, Italian dressing. Quite boring, nothing unusual or out of the ordinary. The typical American fridge, for the mom who cooks for children who prefer their food to be, shall we say, unadventurous?

I like to think that there are different items in my fridge that are different, now that I'm divorced. There are those exotic purchases I have made that I never would have purchased when I was married: hummus, whole wheat pita bread, hoisin sauce, olive tapenade, funky pasta sauces from Trader Joe's. There is a chunk of gruyere cheese awaiting some homemade French Onion soup. These are the things I buy for myself on the weekends my kids aren't with me, and I can indulge my "inner foodie." My ex was strictly meat and potatoes and ketchup was his condiment of choice. I shopped with him in mind, and fixed what he liked to eat.

The biggest difference in the contents of my fridge are the leftovers. I still seem to cook for four. We never had leftovers before, now we do. They go into small plastic containers and become lunches for me at work. This week's haul: chili beans (pinto beans cooked with a whole lot of red chili powder, cumin, garlic, and onions) and an exceptionally-good pasta dish of my own creation--my attempt at re-creating a favorite dish from the Macaroni Grille restaurant: bowtie pasta with pancetta, grilled chicken, artichoke hearts, and mushrooms in a parmesan-cream sauce. It turned out quite nicely, although, as usual, my children wouldn't eat it because it was way too "adventurous." There is almost always some leftover chicken in a container somewhere. We eat chicken a lot, and I always make a little extra because it can become an entirely different meal with a little planning. Leftover chicken is great for chicken quesadillas--the 5-minute dinner often thrown together on Scout meeting nights, when I only have 30 minutes to feed my children before needing to leave the house again.

The best thing about my fridge is that it is actually rather clean. It's a new fridge, you see. My old, dirty, smelly fridge stopped working last year, and I went out to shop for a new fridge, planning on buying the cheapest, most basic fridge I could find. My mother went with me, though, and she said I should buy the fridge that I really wanted because, after all, I'd probably be living with it for a decade or so. So, I spent $1700 on a fridge with French doors and the freezer compartment on the bottom. It has glass shelves and pristine compartments. It is beautiful and new and represents my newly-found feelings of success about my life. I didn't have to settle for the cheap fridge--I had gotten a promotion and could splurge on getting what I wanted for a change.

And so I keep it clean. I mop up spills and throw out aging leftovers and produce. I arrange everything neatly. I know what's in there. I take care of it and value it because it is one of the few nice, new things I have ever owned. I want to keep it new and beautiful. I want everything in my post-divorce world, to be new and beautiful. First it was a new car, then some new clothes, the the refrigerator. Next it will be a new (and much bigger) house, and then some new furniture. All the choices are mine. I no longer have to "settle."

(And why do we call them "fridges" when the word "refrigerator" does not contain a single "d"?) No wonder people can't spell. None of our spelling rules make any sense.