Wishing for a sippy cup

When I die, the epitaph on my tombstone should read, "She needed a nap." It's alarming how increasingly like a toddler I'm becoming. I get very cranky without regular feedings and a good long nap. It would be so nice if someone would read to me and wipe my nose now and then. And gosh, I'd love an animal cracker and a sippy cup of milk. But--the naps. These are not 15-minute power naps. I used to do those, back when I was a productive and ambitious scholar. I kept a beach towel in my office and would stretch out on it for a 15-20 minute nap most afternoons. Got me past the post-lunch yawniness and guaranteed the afternoon's achievements.

I no longer aspire to Productivity and Achievement. Just, you know, being ok. But the big obstacle to ok-ness is chronic insomnia. Now, it is true, the menopause manuals tell you to expect disrupted sleep, sleeplessness, insomnia. But here's where I'm actually at an advantage: I'm an insomniac from way back. Hah! I laugh in the face of menopausal sleep disruption! Go ahead, give it your all, you damned hormones. Or lack of them. Or whatever it is that is doing this shit to me. You can make me sweat. And cry. And forget basic info. And grow abundant facial fur while the hair on my head thins at an alarming rate. But you cannot affect my sleep if I do not sleep. And I do not. Haven't for years. So there.

Well, I do sleep. I nap. Yes, yes, I know, I know. An insomniac should not nap. Very very bad. I've been to the sleep clinics. Been through sleep therapy. Sleep therapies. Tried the herbs. The relaxation exercises. The yoga. The counseling. The warm milk. The deep breathing. The pills. Lovely, those pills. Knock you right out. But the thing is, the next day, you're as tired as ever. God is not fooled. So, I grab the sleep when it offers itself in the afternoons. Survival.

It's a comfort, knowing I've got this part of menopause down. Done and dusted, as the English say. It was the same way when the boys were babies. The sleep deprivation that sends other parents, that sent Keith, down into the Slough of Despond didn't hit me that hard. OK. Yes, it was hard. But it was also just goddamned normal. Well, as normal as life can be when you're an insomniac. Which is pretty fucking abnormal, frankly. Like for over a year, in a really really bad period of insomnia, I regularly checked my car tires for blood, just in case I had run over someone and not known about it. When you don't sleep for days on end, you get a tad, umm, weird.

So, I nap. It's embarrassing. It's the death knell of Achievement and Productivity. It means you provide your 14-year-old son with a giant sign saying Kick Me Here (Mom's asleep. . . . crank up the rap!) But--I'm still here. Sleepy. Cranky as hell. Longing for bed. But still here.