Sleepless In Seattle

 

I love my family and friends. 

I love the world.

I love Valentine's Day. 

And I love to sleep.

On December 20, 2023, my husband missed a step near the bottom of a shadowy staircase, and fell with a crash on a wooden floor. 

Sadly, he messed up his knee and quadricep but the good news is that they have quickly healed. What got messed up even worse was my sleep schedule.

My husband is a classic early bird. Even with his busted up knee, his day begins around six, and as with many early birds, requires coffee to really get the engines humming. 

And while he can handily make his own lattes at home, he really does prefer a cup of joe from the local Starbucks.

That's how I found myself volunteering to rise with the larks in order to fetch his morning brew. 

To be honest, I also didn't want him roaming around the house with a bum knee for half the day while I snoozed upstairs. So I quickly became a morning person too, rising before the sun and scurrying about during early daylight hours, doing all the things that you morning people do while my delayed sleep phase comrades and myself catch up on our zzzs after our busy nights of productivity. 

I found myself going to bed at 10 or 11 p.m. which again, sounds perfectly normal to most non-chronologically challenged people but is downright bizarre for a 4:00 a.m. bedtime person such as myself.

My new early morning schedule carried on into the holidays. Since he wasn't working between Christmas Day and New Year's Day, my husband cut me some slack. He slept a bit later and also volunteered to go an hour or two into his morning without immediate caffeine consumption, since he was not facing his usual battery of Excel spreadsheets. And as the new year began, my husband's knee had recovered enough that he went back to driving himself to Starbucks. So by all rights, I was free to go back to my usual sleep schedule.

But guess what. I couldn't. My body had temporarily adapted to my new schedule and I realized that I would need some time to gradually adapt back. I figured maybe a couple of weeks.

And that wasn't a bad guess. Sure enough, by late January, my body had slowly slipped back to wanting sleep at around 4 a.m.

Then the strangest thing happened. 

My body didn't stop adjusting. Instead of continuing to feel sleepy around 4, I found myself wide at 5, 6, 7, and eventually even 8 a.m. Rather than spending hours tossing and turning in bed, waiting for sleep to find me, I began to get up and put those sleepless hours to use. 

Which has worked. To a point. 

But, culturally conditioned humanoid that I am, I still found myself trying to design and stick to some sort of predetermined schedule. 

Yet nothing - and I repeat, nothing - was working. 

Eventually I had to admit that my body was starved for proper sleep and I was exhausted. This weekend, feeling shivery and sick, I made a bold decision. I have no choice but to throw all conventions and schedules to the wind and simply sleep when I'm sleepy. 

So for the past couple days, I've gone completely rogue. Feeling wide awake all the through the night, early morning, and on up to 11 a.m., noon? No problem! 

Yesterday, I put myself to bed for the night around 2 p.m., woke up after a few hours to have dinner, then slept again until around 3:00 a.m. when I bounced out of bed feeling fresh and fit as a fiddle. I kicked off my day in the dead of the night with a few hours of intense house cleaning, and then with poor Gracie begging me to sit down somewhere so she could relax and get her own sleep, I parked myself here at the computer for several hours of nonstop digital productivity.

Where is this going to end? Will my body eventually settle back down to my usual sleep rhythm or will my circadian rhythm continue to float through day and night on an endlessly revolving schedule? 

I have no idea. But won't it be fun to find out?

* * * * *

Read more about that Delayed Sleep Phase lyfe here

And for a story about another time my sleep schedule slipped, go here.

Dealing With It

"I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father's protection." 

-Sigmund Freud

^ You know what else I've been doing lately? Shopping at antique stores. Here's a haul from late December, clockwise from the top right:

Old wood frame; the bird art will be flying away soon.

Tiny wicker rocker

Artificial apples - more on those below

Wood organizer.

Silver pitcher

Three tiny teddies - more on them below too.

So I've been going to counseling lately.

I've been before. Over the last fifteen years or so, I've gone on and off for a variety of reasons. But never before have I gone to counseling specifically to work on my childhood trauma. So last fall when our family therapist suggested that I might want to work on this part of my life, I figured that this was a great time to check in with myself and see how I was doing.

* * * * * 

Long story short, my father was a cheater. For the first ten years of my life, he had a series of long-term affairs that he didn't even try to hide. Needless to say, that created an explosive environment at home and I found myself living smack dab in the middle of a war zone. When I was ten, my dad left once and for all, and I saw him only two or three times in the rest of my childhood. Left to my own devices to sort through the emotional fallout, I grew up really fast and thankfully settled into my early adulthood with my head on fairly straight

Then came my own marriage and kids. Determined not to make the same mistakes as I'd lived through, I married a man with a storybook childhood and loving parents. I spent a lot of time thinking about how to protect my daughters from my traumatic past, while also telling them the age-appropriate truth about my dad. Walking that razor's edge was never easy but I did the best I could. 

Cut to 2016. My parents, long since divorced and thoroughly estranged, died less than two months apart. That kinda freaked me out. But to be honest, I breathed a sigh of relief because I thought (and fervently hoped) that their passings would bring me a certain level of peace and a sense of resolution.

But that's not what happened at all.

Within hours of my dad's death, I found out that I had a brother from another mother. Yep, my father had conceived a child from one of his long-term affairs who was immediately handed over to an adoption agency and hush-hushed for the rest of my father's life. This secret, carried so successfully to my father's grave, didn't bother me at all - in fact, I love my newfound brother and I'm grateful that we've found each other. But it did open my eyes to a new level of lies and deception that my father employed against us all. Like waves crashing on a beach, the trauma kept a-rollin' in. 

^ One of the stalls in the local antique mall has been going out of business; I learned that the owner fell down a flight of stairs, broke her leg in multiple places, poor thing, and decided that it was time to shut down her sweet little shop. Among her last few pieces, I found these apples  - for which I have a specific use to be explained later - and in her enthusiasm to be done, she gave them to me for free. How incredibly kind. 

* * * * *

This week, after three months of weekly sessions and a deep dive into my past, my trauma therapist pronounced our work as complete. 

And here are six new lessons I've learned about my childhood trauma:

1. My trauma is worse than I've let myself believe. Like many people who suffer significant trauma, I have spent years trying to minimize it, push it away, tell myself it's not that bad. But what I really need to do is face that big ol' elephant in the room by pulling her out of the shadows and keeping her clearly in my sights. 

2. My trauma will never go away. Dang. I wish it would. But while the waves of emotion may settle quietly at times, I'll always carry the pain of my past, and need to be prepared for the fact that it can crash down over me at any moment.

3. Trauma is readily handed down through the generations and I can't fully prevent that from happening, Still, I care very much about protecting my daughters and my nieces and nephews from the worst of the family trauma they inherit. I feel deeply responsible to each one of them and do whatever I can to help them feel connected and loved.

4. Trauma is something we can only understand when we live through it. True, we all experience some levels of overwhelming emotion in our lives - we endure physical, mental, and spiritual pain on the daily. But people who have never experienced the profoundly disruptive events of "big T trauma" - especially when inflicted during childhood - can never fully understand what that feels like. 

5. Talking about my trauma often makes me uncomfortable. Not because I'm ashamed or afraid to share my story, but because I need to feel safe before I open up to another person. For me, writing is usually the best way to process and share my feelings.

6. Trauma has changed me. There's no telling how I might have turned out in a happier world, but then again, I know that my trauma has made me a stronger and more compassionate person. And you know what? I really like that. 

^ Back in the 1990s, my mom developed a passion for collecting teddy bears, and specifically, the super popular Boyd's Bears. When I found the bear from that brand, on the right, complete with angel wings, well, you know I had to have it. Suddenly, a vision of tiny teddy bears decorating not only my Christmas tree but gathering in the space below the tree popped into my brain, and just like that, my own passion for collecting teddies was ignited. 

* * * * *

I'm excited to be done with this leg of my journey. Sure, I know now that my trauma will be with me for the rest of my life, but I have confidence - stronger than ever before - that I'm up to the task of dealing with it. 

* * * * *

More stories about my mom, my dad, and our journey together:

Father's Day Musings About A Bad Dad

My Mother And Me

Spinning Gold Out Of Straw

Fresh Air

On Grief

My Newfound Brother

Never Mind. I'll Do It Myself.

Lazy Sunday Grace

While I was mopping floors today, Gracie took a (nother) nap.

 

Lazy Sunday, snoozing in the late afternoon

Listening to my mom just to see what she's doing

Hello, let's go, Grace. Yo, Mom, what's crackin'?

You thinking what I'm thinking? Downstairs! Man, it's happenin'.

But first, my hunger pains are making me frantic

Let's hit up the fridge and mack on some carrots

No doubt you've got treats to make me feel sassy

I love those carrots like Timmy loves Lassie.

Two: no. Six, no. Twelve, baker's dozen!

I told you that I'm crazy for these carrots, woman.

Yo, when's it walk time? Can't wait, dude.

Well, let's hit up the sidewalks on our dopest route.

I prefer the high school, that's a good one too

But the woods are the best; true that; double true!

56th and Chennault; step on it, Momma

What do you wanna do, Grace? Walk attack, super bomb-a!

It's the Chronic - what? - cles of Sunday Grace

Yes, the Chronic - what? - cles of Sunday Grace

We love the Chronic - what? - cles of Sunday Grace

Pass that Chronic - what? - cles of Sunday Grace

* * * * *

Inspired by watching my dog sleep and thinking about one of my favorite early dayz memes of all times, Lazy Sunday by The Lonely Island.

Video here, original lyrics below.

Lazy Sunday, wake up in the late afternoon

Call Parnell just to see how he's doin'

Hello? What up, Parns? You, Samberg, what's crackin'?

You thinking what I'm thinking? Narnia! Man, it's happenin'

But first my hunger pains are sticking like duct tape

Let's hit up Magnolia and mack on some cupcakes

No doubt that bakery's got all the bomb frostings

I love those cupcakes like McAdams loves Gosling

Two; no. Six; no. Twelve, baker's dozen!

I told you that I'm crazy for these cupcakes, cousin

Yo, where's the movie playin? Upper West Side, dude

Well, let's hit up Yahoo! Maps to find the dopest route

I prefer MapQuest; that's a good one, too

Google Maps is the best; true that; double true!

68th and Broadway; step on it, sucka

What you wanna do, Chris? Snack attack, motherf**ker!

It's the Chronic - what? - cles of Narnia

Yes, the Chronic - what? - cles of Narnia

We love the Chronic - what? - cles of Narnia

Pass that Chronic - what? - cles of Narnia

Reading | Books By Emily Henry

The order in which I read them. Don't ask me to pick a favorite. 

Happy Place | Emily Henry

People We Meet On Vacation | Emily Henry

Book Lovers | Emily Henry

Beach Read | Emily Henry

Emily Henry writes romance novels and pulls no punches about it.

Within the first handful of pages of each of her books, we meet a woman, gain insight on her miserable relationship status, and get our first glimpse of the man with whom - after a crazy string of misunderstandings, misplaced moments, and a few spine-tingling kisses - she will fall madly in love.

There will not necessarily be a lot of surprises.

But as my eldest daughter says, romance novels are not about surprise endings; it's fine if the outcome is made clear from the start. The fun of the book is in its journey.

And Henry's novels sure are fun. Despite the predictable structure, Henry is not afraid to mix things up and color outside the lines as she develops distinctive worlds for each story:

• Happy Place features four female friends from college days who reunite every summer with their partners for summer vacations at a darling Maine seaside cottage. But this year, one of the couples is trying to hide the fact that they have secretly broken up.

• In People We Meet On Vacation, a man and woman have a longstanding tradition of going on a his and hers vacation every summer...platonically, of course. Or is there something more going on in their hearts?

• Book Lovers sets two rivals from the New York City publishing world against each other, all while experimenting with a slower and sweeter life in a Hallmark-movie style small town. Will they stay or won't they?

• Set on the shores of Lake Michigan, Beach Read sets up our main characters as novelists turned next door neighbors. Their writing styles clash, their professional egos take some bruises, but is that enough to keep them apart?

While romance novels are not always synonymous with high quality writing, Henry imbues her romances with intelligence and thoughtfulness. She often explores themes of independence and self-expression, particularly from a woman's point of view. And make no mistake, Henry writes like a house on fire: her prose is sharp, witty and incredibly enjoyable to read. Her dialog features bantering conversations that positively slap and set the tone for the fun ride that each of her books provides.

* * * * *

I'll be honest.

Over the summer, I'd seen several of my daughters reading these books poolside, and talking to each other about how great they are. But I was not necessarily convinced that Emily Henry's writing was my cup of tea, so I kept my distance.

Until I saw the four books' covers.

Dang. 

The cute, mostly concise titles.

The neat, geometric graphic art.

The vibrant, eye-popping colors.

And while I hate to admit that I do very much judge books by their covers, I also figure any writer who can cause her stories to be housed in such adorable books must be doing a whole lot right. So I decided to give Emily Henry's books a shot. 

Now that I've read all four, here's what I think. There are parts that strike me as sappy, cliched, and overly sentimental. But these stories also ring with truth, with honesty, with characters that are not afraid to stare in the face of the world and wish it could be kinder, more thoughtful, more filled with love. And that, my friends, is exactly the kind of writing that is my cup of tea. I'm delighted that I gave these books a chance. 

* * * * *

More stories about books I've read in 2024:

Books By Anthony Doerr

What My Bones Know

Books By Emily Henry

The Poisonwood Bible

Harvesting The Heart

Every Single Day

"I'm just living daily and I thank God for every day that I have." -Daniel Jacobs

"Good morning, Mother. Have you considered serving me breakfast in bed?"

I'm one for starting the day off with a freshly made bed.

I usually sweep my bedroom floor to boot, and straighten up any stray socks my husband may have thrown on the floor.

Just kidding. My husband has literally never thrown a single sock on the floor during our nearly four decades of married life. Not even once. Into the clothes hamper they go, just like clockwork.

But the truth is that I have a different problem in my morning cleaning routine. 

She is eighty pounds of Irish delight and her name is Gracie.

And the truth is also that she isn't trying to cause me any trouble. 

All my darling girl wants to do is catch a few last winks as I prepare to go downstairs, and she just happens to like to do that on my bed. Preferably on my husband's pillows. 

But have you ever tried to make a bed around a large and lazily lounging lady bear? It's not easy but I have found a way.

I encourage her all the way up to the top of the bed

Then I gently slide the covers out from under her furry self.

And I simply make the bed over the top of her.

When I first tried this, I figured she would leap out of the bed the instant I pulled the comforter up over her already toasty warm body. My previous setters would have stood for this nonsense for a total of zero seconds before kicking their way out to freedom.

But Gracie seems to quite like her cozy nest. She watches with interest as I continue to smooth out all the wrinkles and plump my pillows just so. I don't dare touch the ones she's using. 

And she reclines with regal ease as I finish up whatever chores remain.

Only when I am completely done do I walk to the door, open it, and as I step out into the hall, call "Come on, Grace. Let's go down."

Then she gracefully slips out from the covers, tiptoes across the smooth blankets, delicately hops to the floor, then thunders down the stairs like a runaway locomotive. 

Thus another day with Gracie begins. Every single one is a good one.