Slap Happy-Go-Lucky - June 29, 2012

People who can sleep anytime and anywhere need to stop bragging (my husband).  Okay, maybe he’s not bragging as such, but when he snores, sometimes it sounds like “neener, neener.”  It’s as if he’s taunting me because I’m awake at 5 am staring at the ceiling or watching Jane Seymour try to sell me Natural Advantage, while he’s sound asleep.


I wasn’t sure how to spell “neener, neener”, so I looked it up as “neiner, neiner” first in the urban dictionary and that’s the mating call of a titmouse.  My stomach hurts from cracking up, but I’m probably just slap happy. (I just laughed out loud and my husband is still snoring.  Jerk!)


This is the only positive thing I get from having insomnia.  Everything is funny.  Except, of course, for the times when I have insomnia during my monthly bill and I feel like I’m locked up in a 2×2 cell, because everything is NOT funny.  Everyone is annoying, but I don’t have the energy to say anything.


I feel like Malcolm McDowell in Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange.  My eyes are being forced open and I’m staring at some pretty disturbing stuff, but I can’t do anything about it.  I’m shackled because I’m just too damn tired.  I’m staring at stuff like my husband pressing snooze for the fifth time and actually being able to fall back asleep during each five-minute interval; fall so deeply asleep that he’s snoring again.  Stuff like my daughter waking up in the morning and singing in her bed.  (Just our luck, she’ll be a morning person, when we clearly are not.)  Stuff like the neighbor gardening at 7 am, which somehow involves him using a hammer (At least I think he’s gardening.  Hmm…)


We booked a redeye to visit my husband’s family once, pre-kid (thank God for that).  I popped a children’s Benadryl and was almost certain I would get some shuteye.  No such luck; and there was no little, seat-back TV.  I had to stare at the flight attendants walk back and forth with only a series of reading lights, nearing hallucination, for five hours.  It took me two days to recover from getting zero minutes of sleep and we were only there for four.


I’m an infomercial lurker.  I’m like the people who spend hours on social media, but never post anything.  I think everything is really cool.  I mean, Jane Seymour looks like she’s only 35 and she’s probably pushing 60, right?  I’m just too tired to get out of bed to buy any of the products.  I am paralyzed, but cognitive (that’s my worst nightmare).


Having insomnia is a lonely affair.  Both of my musketeers share the same sleep-anywhere gene.  I’m the outcast.  I swear my husband could sleep in a folding chair, outside in 40-degree weather, while the neighbor has a crew hammering away on the roof.  My daughter can sleep on our hardwood floor.  Sometimes I make noise on purpose, just to get a little company from my husband, but he’s like a lump on a log.  When I wake him up to turn over because he’s snoring, he goes back to sleep.  (Again, jerk!)


Other than being slap happy, there’s another positive thing about being an insomniac.  When I want peace and quiet, I get it.  My daughter isn’t tugging on my pant leg asking me to play with her and my husband isn’t asking me questions he probably already knows the answers to.  I can actually hear myself think for a few hours and as a Mommy, that’s like Christmas.


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