On weekdays, I wake up at 4 a.m. The alarm is an atrocious and cruel beast whom I abhor with all of my heart. But, my husband is kind of cute and I sort of like him so when the blaring screech starts emanating from his nightstand, I curse, sometimes audibly, and drag myself from my bed to get his breakfast started. But the minute he is out the door and his taillights are no longer in sight, I am back under the covers.
And I covet that extra sleep like my inner fat kid coveted Velveeta. Just leave me alone to have at it. Don’t make me close and lock the bedroom door because that just makes all of us feel bad. (And please understand, I’m not trying to offend anyone with the fat kid comment, it was a very real and dark time in my life. And Velveeta played a pivotal role.)
Anyway, though I always have high hopes, this time is rarely what I want it to be; a time for rejuvenation and much-needed extra minutes of REM. Kids, dogs, cats and sometimes even chickens, conspire against me.
When the kids were younger, we fully embraced co-sleeping. Mostly because I was far too lazy to put my feet on the floor at night to provide them with nourishment, but also because I never wanted my kids to feel scared or alone.
I had tons of nightmares as a child. I can barely remember a night that I didn’t wake terrified, and head out of my room to find comfort. I learned pretty early on that I was not welcome in my parent’s room (back then co-sleeping was called “coddling”) and found lots of creative ways to keep the creepies at bay. Generally, I just slept in the hallway, so anyone coming or going to their bedroom would have to trip over me. Eventually, my parents conceded to giving my oldest sister my room and bunking me with my other sister. Though it didn’t stop the nightmares, it comforted me to wake up and see another human being that wasn’t either trying to kill me, or dead.
With these images burned into my memory, I felt pretty strongly about allowing my little ones the freedom to come to us at night. For many, many, many moons, they took advantage of this open-door policy. I felt good knowing that I could calm their fears and get them the much-needed sleep that often evaded my childhood nights.
But at a certain point, like when they take up sleep gymnastics (which should be recognized as a legitimate, contact sport) or are nearly as big as the adults, it gets to be a little much and I wonder how I could have ever wanted to sleep with other people. What sane person would not want an entire bed to herself?
At first, when awakened by not-so-little-but-definitely-terrified people, I would just leave the room and let them have my spot in bed. Hell, the couch is pretty freaking comfortable and no one was there to headbutt me in their sleep. Incredibly, they followed me. And if you think it’s like clowns in a Volkswagen with kids in a queen size bed, imagine the yoga-like positions required to fit two of us on the damn couch.
Finally, I said, “Enough! You have each other. If the dark freaks you out, go find your sibling. They will protect you.”
We all knew this was a bold-faced lie, but for the most part, it worked. I had made it clear that our co-sleeping days had come to an end. I had declared my sleep independence.
Unfortunately, my kids are essentially unlicensed lawyers, constantly searching for loopholes in any contract.
“No longer allowed in the bed? I see that written here. But there is no mention of waking you up for no reason at all. Nor does the contract stipulate what constitutes ‘night.’ Therefore, if the sun is up, we will define that as ‘day.’ We will also include anytime that you may have been awake in the past, or future. For example, on New Year’s Eve, you stay up until midnight. Due to precedence, midnight is a time that we can consider reasonable for waking you up to speak about inane topics, even if we have to get half an inch from your face to fully engage you (also acknowledged as ‘scare the hell out of you’). Please sign here. Oh, and also sign this rider. It simply states that we have the right to revoke, alter or change this contract at any time, without prior written or verbal notice.”
I signed it, but once I was fully awake, I filed an appeal. You can’t let them know they’re winning.
So, back to my daily second sleep. I’ve trained myself to fall back asleep pretty quickly. It turns out that sheer exhaustion is an excellent way to prepare. And every one of those minutes is crucial. I don’t set the second alarm for 5:30 a.m. or 7, no. I suck every last second out of that nap. I have calculated, down to the minute, how much time I can sleep and still manage to shower, eat, rouse and feed children and pets, get dressed and still get wherever we’re supposed to be, on time. My alarms are set for times like 5:43. Or 7:09. Clearly, I know how to live on the edge.
And just like any good ruiner-of-things, the mini-people and animals in my life conspire against me. At least once a week, my daughter, who is completely capable of preparing her own food, will come into my room and loudly whisper, “Mom, I’m hungry.” And every time, I answer, “then eat something.” And she goes into the kitchen and eats.
Why, in the name of all things good and holy, do I need to be woken for this announcement? I’ve asked her this question and never gotten a suitable answer. I’ve told her to skip the waking me up stage and go right to the eating stage. And yet, once a week, we repeat this insane dance.
And then there are the pets. Sometimes, even though the dogs go out every night before bed, they wake up in the middle of the night and harass me until I let them out. They don’t go to anyone else, just me. I get the cold nose in my eye, the whining in my ear or if all else fails, they just jump on top of me.
However, this is preferable to the other, more frequent option, which is waking me up seven to 19 minutes before my alarm is set to go off. It’s like some kind of hateful and diabolical torture. Because that time is just lost. There’s not enough time left to go back to sleep. There’s too much time left to get up. It’s like a different time zone of misery and exhausted resentment.
On other mornings, ones that have me questioning the life choices I’ve made, the cat that doesn’t sleep on my feet suddenly has urgent business with the cat that does sleep on my feet. And he alerts her to this momentous news by loudly singing the song of their people. At this point, either she ignores him, causing him to jump onto the bed and tell her in person, or she scrambles across my prone form in a effort to respond to whatever cat emergency is happening. And that emergency is usually a pressing need to run through the house at light speed, knocking things over and making more noise than any two animals with a combined weight of less than 40 pounds should be capable of creating.
For the most part, I’ve just given up. I’m the mom of two amazing humans who are growing up way too fast anyway and a lover of several crazy, irrational, furry beasts. I’ve resigned myself to go through life anywhere from a little tired to completely exhausted. After all, I can always sleep when I’m dead.
When I finally do get up, people expect a hot breakfast. I try to make a big batch of waffles early in the week so the starving masses don’t perish while I’m asleep. Here’s our gluten-free waffle recipe that never fails.
Waffles
2 cups plain yogurt
3 cups plain Greek yogurt
1 cup water or milk
8 eggs
2 tbsp baking soda
2 teaspoons salt
3 cups Bob’s Red Mill 1 to 1 gluten free flour
1/3 cup coconut flour
This makes a massive batch. There will be enough waffles for the whole week. But don’t expect anyone to remember that. They will still come to wake you from your joyous slumber to complain about how hungry they are.
Laurie Nigro, a mother of two, is passionate about her family, her community, and natural living. Laurie resides in downtown Riverhead and is co-founder of the River and Roots Community Garden on West Main Street.
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