4 am

a print that hangs by my bed

I'm a good sleeper. I go to bed on the late side, after writing and reading for two to three hours, and when I put down my book and turn out the light, I turn to my side and go to sleep. I wake up seven or so hours later when the alarm clock light begins flashing, and I have no trouble turning it off and then lying there doing a short meditation. I know, this is a blessing. This morning, though, I woke up at exactly 4 am in full thought, and it seemed like the thoughts were exactly the same as they had been when I'd fallen asleep. I had gone over the day, an upsetting one, actually, worried for my boy Oliver who is so unhappy at school. As those of you who work the early morning shift know, 4 am is the time when all worries are magnified and seemingly insurmountable. They don't call it the darkest hour before dawn for nothing. It also seems that telling oneself that worrying at 4 am is stupid is useless, and after fifteen minutes or so of rising terror that might have, could have, would have tipped over into despair, I got up and crept into the boys' bedroom and over to Oliver who was sleeping peacefully. I stood beside the bed and touched his exposed hand, curled softly on top of the cover. He rustled a bit but continued to breathe deeply, so I stood there with my hand on his and breathed deeply, my eyes closed. I prayed for peace for him when the sun rose, for strength for me to love and be compassionate. I prayed for ease while he continued to breathe, in and out, his face still the baby's that I'd rocked every night and sung to years ago. When I left the room, light was curling around the blinds, but I climbed back into bed, closed my eyes and went back to sleep.

Oy

Along with good Lord, oy is one of my favorite expressions and comments. We had one of those darkest hour before dawn kind of mornings this morning, beginning around 4:00 am when I woke up with a start and heard The Husband shuffling down the hall, the sound of Sophie humming and the hacking cough of Oliver. I got up to investigate which included asking The Husband why the television was on, its blue light flickering and he replied that Oliver was up and that he was up and that Sophie was up. 

Oy.

I went to the boys' room, where Oliver was sitting up in bed with his bedside light on and flooding the room with light. Turn the light OFF! I hissed, and silently handed him a cupful of Boiron's Honey Cough Syrup. It's day four of Oliver's cold, and while I've been the model of compassion and sympathy during the day with him, he tends to milk the illness for all it's worth and in so doing, my compassion and sympathy leak away. I'm afraid that he's already showing signs of a "bad" sick person and will, I'm certain, morph into a guy who has Man Colds. I pity his future partner.



I then walked out of his room and into Sophie's where I found her walking around, humming and shivering in the cold, so I put her back in bed and climbed in beside her, curled around her and closed my eyes in a vain attempt to go back to sleep.

Oy.

This is where the dark night of the soul comes in, when all rational thought slips out and worries and anxieties slip in, as well as inane questions that slither around the room, under my eyelids and into my brain. I guess Oliver isn't going to school tomorrow, again. I can't believe The Husband can lie on the couch and watch silent tv at 5 am. How am I going to drive Henry four times to the westside a week and back for practices and pick Oliver up from rehearsals for the whole month? If I were like Serena Williams' mother who drove her and her sister constantly around to play tennis, would Henry be a better lacrosse and baseball player? Have I dedicated myself enough to helping him fulfill his dreams? This is so not mindful to lie here and think these stupid thoughts. Breathe. Now I can't go to the conservator workshop tomorrow morning and will have to go next Friday. What if I don't get it done, Sophie turns eighteen and has a medical emergency the day after and I can't make decisions for her? Should I make Oliver go to school tomorrow even though he's been up half the night, coughing? Will I ever exercise again? I shouldn't have eaten so many of those chocolate covered almonds. How much Onfi is left before I have to do that whole Canadian thing again? I haven't put Sophie's orthotics on enough this week. Why is The Husband snoring and why doesn't he fold the afghans up and lay them over the couch when he goes to bed? Why do I always fluff the pillows in the morning?

You get the drift. Good Lord. 

So, the morning is here. Oliver is home and I've put off my workshop and sent Sophie and Henry to school. The Husband is grumpy but will soon leave the house, too, and I'll be stuck here filling out financial aid forms and tending to the Boy with the Man Cold.

Happy Friday.