Dreaming of Dreaming

Dreams don't often come my way, at least, not the sleepy-time ones. In the many years that have elapsed since I became a made member of the Mommyfolk tribe, I've noticed that my dreams are fewer and bare-bones when they do come.

More sleep - unbroken sleep (must the latest stomach flu always announce its presence in my home at the darkest hour of the night?) - would likely mean more dreams, but I'm not complaining as my dreams tend toward the hyper-imaginative-nightmare type.

I'm more than happy to miss out on those.

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All of the three Royal Monkeys have their own sleepytime quirks.

Princess Pinky is a talker; if I re-tuck her in when I check on her at night, I'm likely to hear a long, half-mumbled bit of jibberish as she sighs her way back to la-la-land. This is a vast improvement over her toddlerhood era of night terrors. Knute and I learned quickly how to tell if her big blue eyes were still trapped in the nightmare or actually awake and cognizant of our presence. These were scary and upsetting episodes for us, but thankfully she's well past them now.

Prince Tatertot sleeps like a rock - no, more like a rolling boulder that comes to an abrupt stop and stands still. As a baby, he'd often fall asleep while I changed his diaper, long past the newborn stage. When he was a year old and eating solid food faster than I could shove it into his gaping little mouth, he'd fall asleep every day at lunch in his highchair. Off to the side his big boy head would nod, nod, nod, then BOOM! His ginormo-boy appetite would rear up, his eyes would fly open, and back to center his head would come for another shovel of food. This would repeat until sleepyboy finally won out over hungryboy; I'd wipe his fat little cheeks clean then snuggle him into his crib. Even now, he will still fall asleep at the dinner table on occasion after a busy Adventure Boy Day- after he's shoved enough food in to feed two of me.

Sir Screamsalot has been my worst sleeper as a baby. Perhaps his nickname might yield a clue? He, like his sister, is a chatterbox while awake and asleep. I've heard him crying in the night over the past several weeks and gone to check on him only to find him fast asleep and dreaming. He is a man of routine; he must have his snuggles, his Lightning, his chairtime with Mommy or Daddy or Sissy, two stories, and prayers. Thankfully, he's been sleeping reliably well since last summer; I'm sure if he was still up every two or three hours, this blog would look like the work of trained chickens.

To have all three of my weefolk sleep well through the night, every night, is a huge milestone. It means I should get more and better sleep myself.

Should.

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Mothering changes you; it leaves its mark on you, reducing and expanding you physically, intellectually, and emotionally.

Now that I finally have the capacity for more sleep, I've discovered something:

I can't.

I simply have become accustomed to functioning at warp speed fueled by less sleep and a bit more coffee. And then, there's something else at work on my sleep-psyche:

Time.

It's flying by now, my life is, huge chunks hurtling past me. Those months on the calendar that seemed like oceans I'd never cross when I was a kid are now waves crashing over me before I can catch my breath. Princess Pinky is closing in on the end of first grade; Prince Tatertot is prepping for kindergarten and Sir Screamsalot is potty-training.

While all of this leads to more of those tidbits of time just for me, it's frightening to feel my life moving so quickly around me and the endless list of To Do's that come with mommying.

And when I find myself dreaming of writing, I know it's time to pay attention.

WM