...just a few minutes to recharge...

Yesterday, I took a nap.

It was somewhere around 4pm.  My son was knee-deep in homework, studying for a Friday trifecta of quizzes and tests.  His after-school club had been cancelled, so he'd come home on the early bus and we'd made a snack of leftovers from his birthday dinner.  I took my tea to the livingroom, thinking I'd sit and read for a while so as not to disturb him.  My book was slow, the words just sitting there in a jumble with no hook.  I swung my feet up and leaned down into the sofa's arm.  Katja Noel, hearing the siren call of a lap in the making, dropped down from whatever nowhere she'd been hiding in and began kneading my stomach.  I pushed her further down to nestle across my legs.  Her purring filled the quiet space, competing with the rhythm of the sentences in my book.  I dog-eared the page, finger in between, and let it drop to my chest.

And then I woke.  Cold, immediately.  And shaky feeling.  Catching a breath I'd forgotten to take.  Katja Noel grumbled, a disgruntled "mrrrrr", slanting her eyes at the sudden disturbance of movement.  I squinted at the clock.  Wondering how long I'd drifted.  Embarrassed that I'd dozed off.  4:10.  I sat up, shaking the cobwebs from my brain.  Stood and walked into the kitchen.  My son still sat there, concentrating.  I yawned and stretched, up on my toes , arms reaching up and back.  He looked up.

"Mami, why don't you take a nap?"

"I just did, apparently."

"You're not very good at it."

"No, I guess I'm not."  

Sleep does not come easy to me.  I rest, restlessly...fitfully...  At night my mind does what his does when faced with a choice.  It races through the scenarios, analyzing variables, plotting outcomes, searching for solutions.  I remain alert.  Or maybe, I become alert.  The closing of my eyes signaling my other senses to take over.  The overwhelming volume of the quiet nighttime making it impossible to relax.  

Lately, I'm tired.  All the time.  The alarm goes off in the morning and I stumble into the kitchen to turn on the pitcher.  I have to concentrate...really concentrate...as I prep the French press.  4 scoops coffee, 1 scoop sugar.  Sometimes I catch myself, right before I pour orange juice into my mug.  Shake my head again, knock loose those cobwebs.  The cats just watch.  Curious, I suppose.  Wondering when I'll finally remember to feed them.  I take my coffee into the livingroom.  Set it on the windowsill above the sofa.  Then back into the kitchen to retrieve my laptop.  One thing at a time.  I can't trust myself not to stumble...to spill...  It takes a while to boot up.  I catch myself nodding off.  Jerk my hands from the keyboard.  Where's my coffee?  Take a sip...scorching hot.  Awake now.  

An hour later it's time to wake my son.  I make my way over, quietly.  Turning lights on halfway.  Pull the cover from his face, and softly...gently..."Good morning sweetheart...it's time to get up for school..."...a singsong.  He murmurs back "good muhhhhning" and begins to unravel from the nest.  A little struggle as his feet get caught in a knot of comforter and sheet.  I think to myself "Why not?  Why not just crawl back into bed?  Look, sooo comfy...."  

A second alarm goes off just then.  The one I set in case I forget to watch the clock.  He's up, reaching for his robe.  Back to the kitchen for me to fill his mug, add whipped cream and sprinkles.  He says "Oooh!" as though it's a big surprise...playing along with the daily ritual.  We'll sit together.  He'll watch a Transformers episode, licking the whipped cream and sprinkles off his coffee, and wait for his brain to turn on.  I'll take big gulps from my mug as I scroll through email and online news reports, rushing to read before I've to make breakfast.  

Breakfast. Dishes. Shower.

Lay out clothes.  Lunch.  Pack.  Refill the meds.  

There's PT and OT to get through.  He's nursing a sprain still, so I make sure the brace is secure.  Drop an ice cube in his travel mug.  Grab his bags, zip his coat.  Remind him to bring his tea.  We walk down the driveway, head to the busstop.  Mindful of cars as I read aloud.  "The Hardy Boys". The bus arrives a chapter later, like clockwork.  Shrug off his bookbag, his chromebook case.  Trade him for an empty mug, hug and a kiss.  Exchange greetings with the bus driver...the same smile, the same "Have a good day" day in and day out.  Wave, walking into the middle of the road so he can see me until the bus turns the corner.  "I love you.  Come home safe to me.", I say aloud into the air, blowing a kiss as the taillights fade from view.  

And then my day begins.  And I am tired.  

I go through the motions, knowing I'm probably missing the details.  Knowing I'm only getting half the info.  The work gets done, but the spark is gone.  There's no creative addition.  No digging deeper or drive to excel.  This candle burnt at both ends.  I feel ashamed of my exhaustion.  Angry at myself.  I want to be better.  Do better.  I have a to-do list that keeps getting longer.  And the 4pm slump interrupts it.  All my big plans vanish into the ether when the clock strikes 4:00 and my body collapses into itself.  

Hours to go yet.  Homework and therapy.  Errands and dinner.  More reading to do.  More dishes to do.  More everything.  And I am tired. 

All my "today we'll...." and "tonight we'll..." put off to another tomorrow.  There's housework to do, and prepwork to do.  And I am tired. 

"Mami, why don't you take a nap?"

Why don't I?  

~Leanna