I find myself seeking out my old blog tonight, after a long, tired day, and a long, tired week, and two nights of lonely, broken sleep, fraught with listening. I rarely sit and reflect on what I'm doing, or how I'm feeling and why. Or I do, but not in a way that is productive--rather, my focus has, for a long time, been on what might have been my profession, and what has not gone as planned. And when I have the rare thought, I am too tired, and chase it away. But perhaps a certain type of exhaustion lends a bit of clarity...
The first time my husband went on a trip to Mexico, I wrote here about my joy on his return. After four years have passed, many trips later, I still find his travel difficult, though differently so. I confessed to him, and I'm afraid that it has not made his leaving any easier, that I find it difficult to decide to go to sleep when he is away. It isn't exactly that I find it difficult to sleep... I simply don't want to take the definitive step in deciding to go to sleep. It is sometimes like this when he is home as well, but I have him to obligate me to sleep. I have my motivation, and my company. In spite of being an introvert, I would rather sit in silence with him than without. But there is more... I dislike being the last person awake in a house at night.
At night, when I am alone and awake, I hear noises. On the first night he was gone this week, it was very windy. When it became clear that my morning obligations were going to require me to submit to sleep, I brought a book to bed that I was too tired to read, and turned on a lamp in my bedroom. Once there, I heard a creak, and thought, first, that my Doodle, now 8 with a bad head cold, had awoken. So I walked our apartment, checking for waking children and opening doors. But everything was as it should be; everyone in his or her bed. So I returned to mine, this time checking email. Again, I heard the creaking. Again, I walked the hall and each room until I was sure that there was nothing wrong. This happened maybe another time or two, and then I decided that the creaking was outside, likely the gate to our small yard, which should be closed tight, but had probably blown open from the wind. It was logical, but not satisfying; I felt vulnerable. In the morning, I discovered that it was not the gate at all.
The second night is always easier. It's not that I get used to being alone at night. Rather, I reassure myself more easily, and fall asleep more quickly, being tired from the first night. Last night, I was tired. I fell asleep shortly after turning on the television. I fell back to sleep after my son said goodnight. I missed a message from my husband. Fortunately, I woke to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and then went to sleep.
Last night, there was a storm. A regular gale, it whipped though the trees, and finally cut the power off. A moment later, Doodle was coughing. With my phone as a light, I found her in the next room, gave her water and medicine, and tucked her in. Then, I lit the way for her to use the bathroom. When I returned her to her bed, she was wide awake--and I was more so. In a moment, her sister was disturbed, though not quire awake. Both were somewhat troubled by the dark. So I brought them with me.
I was, as always when I am worried about them, more relaxed with them near. But I was even more relaxed once the electricity came on, and hour or more later, and slept soundly for two hours at least. And here I am now, unusually awake, not letting myself drift until I am unable to think about hearing sounds in the house, not staying partially awake until the choice of whether or not to abandon control of my surroundings is no longer my own.
Tonight, my son stayed up with me, watching Clue. When he was heading to bed, he, too, heard a creak. It reminded me so much of myself that I smiled a bit. There he was, checking outside. Checking the front door. Checking on his sisters. All was well, as I knew it would be.
Sleep should not be fearful, but I do find it so. To lose consciousness for those hours means relinquishing responsibility--not overseeing the house, abandoning the children to their own sleep, which we are taught from their infancy is a dangerous time. When I go to sleep, again I feel that we are vulnerable. It is, no doubt, a failure of trust--a failure to trust to God that the night and their sleep will continue, unwatched and unlistend-to by me.
But when I am not alone, it is different. We decide, together, to abandon our spaces and our children to sleep. It is a responsibility that must be shared--the responsibility of letting go. I have never thought of sleep as an act of faith, but it is. I have pondered, during these nights, the lines of the children's prayer, "if I should die before I wake..." which has seemed to me both morbid and historically accurate, but which seemed innocent to me as a child, and perhaps comforting. Having more fear of death now, and people to protect, I do not find them as comforting, though they do still carry an innocence. But they carry a deep wisdom: that giving ourselves over to sleep is an act of faith, a trust in God. For me, I am not there yet. It is a leap that I take best when accompanied by the one I love, whom I will see tomorrow. Good night.
