Trying to Survive Without Sleep
Last night I skinned up Buttermilk with my Monday evening companions. We gathered in the parking lot, putting skins on our skis and stuffing our packs with headlamps and warm clothes for the descent. The conversation immediately turned to how tired we all were and how we needed to muster the energy to climb 2,030 vertical feet at 6:30 p.m.
Apparently I wasn’t the only one having trouble sleeping. I listened as everyone named their drug of choice for getting through the night. I said I was afraid to go that route because I feared becoming addicted. They all laughed and said Ambien was the least of my worries.
It is our fate as parents that once we have children, we will never sleep deeply again for the rest of our lives. As mothers, our sleepless fate runs deeper. At the end of the day we collapse into bed without an ounce of energy left. Falling asleep isn’t the issue; it’s what happens once we’re in REM. Inevitably our sleep is disturbed, either by an underappreciated husband or by a scared, whimpering child. Many times I’ve woken to the ghostly vision of a child hovering over me as I slept. If we are mercifully left alone, then thoughts of how we’re going to save the world, or at least our families, seep into our dreams. Add hormones, red wine, chocolate or guilt to the equation and we become zombies of the night.
This morning I woke up with a deflated bubble on top of my sleepless night. I had been riding a wave that just crashed down on me, and I can’t find my sense of humor to get me out of this one. I’m walking around in a slump, doing what I can to rebuild my ego and move on. Tucker doesn’t seem to notice my sluggishness and insists I stop typing and build a city out of blocks with him.
Maybe that’s just what I need to break out of this miserable state.






































































