Back in the days of babies, I used to find myself up in the most silent time of night, sitting on a couch or chair, nursing a baby. Then I would change the baby, rock the baby, and put the baby to sleep. During the day, I would rue this late night upness, but at the time, baby in my arms, the night silence surrounding me,nothing but the baby and me in the world, I loved this quiet time together with my child. From 2 to 3 or 3 to 4, there we both would be in the stillness of the house.
Well, I'm up again from 2 to 3 or 3 to 4 (sometimes from 2-4) but there is no baby. There is nothing but me and my upness, some new nightmarish hormonal twist of fate awakening me from a deep sleep and keeping me awake, an alertness that no glass of milk will quell.
This time is familiar and known, and the silence is here just as it always was, but I'm alone now. The tasks I can perform are not about a child but about my work. The to-do list for the next day is there, and I dip into it, moving through a couple of items before heading back to the bedroom for sleep, round two.
So I write a little bit. Sometimes I read. I write a blog. I read a student's work. During all, my mind seems alert and focused, something I would never imagine possible. I don't like the sound of "Two in the morning." "Three in the morning" is almost a swear word. Sadly, "four in the morning" almost sounds normal as I often make my way down to bed as my boyfriend Michael is getting up for the day. We pass each other on the stairs, he headed for the office, me headed for unconsciousness.
I wonder if I will look back at these nights with the same fondness that I do with those hours spent with my babies. Will I be an old woman, thinking about the nights I spent with myself, writing and reading and thinking? Perhaps I will imagine that holding my own life in my arms was as endearing as holding those tiny babies, the night around me, the time as full of growth and wonder as all those years before.
Well, I'm up again from 2 to 3 or 3 to 4 (sometimes from 2-4) but there is no baby. There is nothing but me and my upness, some new nightmarish hormonal twist of fate awakening me from a deep sleep and keeping me awake, an alertness that no glass of milk will quell.
This time is familiar and known, and the silence is here just as it always was, but I'm alone now. The tasks I can perform are not about a child but about my work. The to-do list for the next day is there, and I dip into it, moving through a couple of items before heading back to the bedroom for sleep, round two.
So I write a little bit. Sometimes I read. I write a blog. I read a student's work. During all, my mind seems alert and focused, something I would never imagine possible. I don't like the sound of "Two in the morning." "Three in the morning" is almost a swear word. Sadly, "four in the morning" almost sounds normal as I often make my way down to bed as my boyfriend Michael is getting up for the day. We pass each other on the stairs, he headed for the office, me headed for unconsciousness.
I wonder if I will look back at these nights with the same fondness that I do with those hours spent with my babies. Will I be an old woman, thinking about the nights I spent with myself, writing and reading and thinking? Perhaps I will imagine that holding my own life in my arms was as endearing as holding those tiny babies, the night around me, the time as full of growth and wonder as all those years before.
