I’m starting to kind of like my daily bout of insomnia. Not to the point where I would choose it, if I had, instead, the option of getting eight – or even six – straight hours of sleep, but first there was denial (“Oh, weird, I’m awake at night. That never happens to me. I’m sure it won’t become a habit.”) then anger (“Grrrr, 2:00 again, better get up and glare at the cat rather than lie here all sore and antsy.”). Then came bargaining (“If I just go to bed earlier at night, and skip the nap during the day, I’ll sleep better at night… right?”) and a brief spate of pseudo-depression (“Woe is me, between this and Jacob’s visit and the imminence of newborn, I’m never going to sleep through the night again.”). And, in time, just like the textbooks say, came acceptance (“Time to grab a snack.”).
And most nights, with the acceptance has come a certain appreciation, if not outright enjoyment, of the quiet and solitude of the wee hours. I’ve developed a comfortable little routine: get up, use the bathroom, go forage for a snack, set myself up with a mindless book and, once the snack is gone, some simple knitting, and wait until I start feeling tired again. Usually it’s about an hour, rarely more than 90 minutes. And then it’s back to bed, to grumble at the alarm a few hours later. (And, lately, get up with the alarm, shuffle the kids off to the bus, get home, eat again, and go back to bed for a few hours… I’m not thrilled about this in terms of complete non-productivity of my mornings, but I like that I can.)
It’s a nice, comfortable, reliable little routine, and gives me time to just be. Sometimes the cat pesters me, and I’ll pester her right back, but otherwise I can just sit and think – or let my brain empty – without waiting for the next round of, “Hey, Mom?”
And I have gotten more knitting done than I otherwise would, since I’ve been sleeping through my morning hours and am generally too busy in the afternoons and too tired in the evenings to handle the pointy sticks. So the world at large, or at least those within my sphere of knitwear-giving, benefits, as well.
So, sure, it’s fine, and seeing as how it seems to be for a pretty good reason – pregnancy, as opposed to pain or anxiety – then I’m trying to roll with it.
Though there are the occasional moments, like last night, when I at least wish I’d had an audience to share what happened. Not because it’s ever big and noteworthy (and a good thing, too, because I have a hard time imagining things which are both big-and-noteworthy, positive, and likely to happen in the middle of the night) but just because the down-side of solitude is the lack of companionship. Last night’s snack du nuit was a bagel with Nutella, lightly toasted. I pulled it out of the toaster oven – whose ding somehow moves from helpfully notifying to alarmingly loud at certain times – and started to spread the chocolate happiness. I had one half about half-covered, when I slipped, dropped the bagel, and reflexively caught it between my body and the counter… I groaned and readied myself for the inevitable carnage, of chocolate all over the counter, the cabinet, my clothes, the floor… looked down… and, lo, I didn’t get a drop of Nutella on me. It was a magical experience. Things like that never happen to me; my stories are usually about how I had to hunt down a complete change of clothes in the dark because somehow I ended up involving my socks in the mess, or similar.
So. A moment of magic, to break up my otherwise serene and simple routine. There are worse ways to spend a 2:00 a.m.
(P.S. According to my pregnancy book, being 13 weeks plus a few days means I’ve officially moved into the second trimester. I thought it happened at 14 weeks, but I’ll take it. Now where’s that energy rebound I keep reading about??)