I am, officially, not sleeping again. I stay up past midnight most days just to listen to the dishwasher and clothes dryer run. But to lay in bed and wait to sleep is useless as last night proved. I will say that after Amelia’s late snack, we both slept rather well and all of us slept late. So there’s that. Maybe I just needed a bite to eat? I have slept less in the last year than at any other point in my life and that includes when my babies were newborns. I can’t even believe that I’m allowed out in public.
It’s just so quiet at this time of night. The TV is low…just on for company. The dryer is clacking away with a load of diapers just waiting to be pooped on. I just conquered “Talk Dirty to Me” for the first time. I checked on the shipping status of my new sheets (ebay) to go with my new furniture (delivered on Friday). All is well. I don’t want the magic to end. What I wish, and maybe I can get this to happen, is for this moment to be at the *beginning* of the day. Aha! That’s a novel idea. Get up early! Do chores. Play on the computer. Catch up with the friends in my computer. Reverse what I have been doing. Would that really make me feel better? Is more sleep what I need?
I was watching “The Break-up” last night when I was folding laundry. At the end, after things get really ugly, she goes for a run. And the city is behind her and she’s easily jogging with her ipod. She really gets to think. I want that. But I think about what it would take to get to that point.
I’d have to hire a sitter. And get a good sports bra (because I haven’t scheduled that boob thing yet). I’d have to re-sync my ipod to music not heard in Starbucks (of the moody-chick rock variety). I’d have to run for 100 yards, walk a mile, run for 100 yards, walk a mile. On a flat surface of course. Or downhill the whole time. Because if I really had to run, the only thought in my head would be my burning shins, swollen plantar faciatias, lungs that have moved up my neck and quickly considering vomiting themselves onto the pavement, cold sweat on my butt cheeks and the laughter of the real runners burning my ears into my skull. And then I’d have to pay my babysitter. God, I hate running.
But I could be a runner. If I had 60 less pounds (okay, 75 if I really wanted to run like Jennifer Aniston) to haul around, 4 less cup sizes, better shoes and 2 less children. Oh, and an ipod with a screen would be nice so I don’t have to resync to just to listen to what I’m in the mood to hear. I could totally see myself being in that zen place that only real runners achieve.
It is midnight. Again. One more day gone. And I’m tired enough to give this a go.