Three thirty seven

Awake. Bladder.
Keep the eyes slitted to suggest to brain I’m not awake yet.
Think as little as possible. Frankenstein-movement to suggest to brain still very sleepy.
Back under quilt. Duvet because it’s cold now.

I said sleep.




Fidget feet.
Put palm upon forehead/eyes.

Worryworryworryworryworryworry worry worry. Worry. Wooooorry. Wurry.

Should I just get up?

Worry. I’m thinking too much. No. I’m thinking about sleeping too much. And I’m thinking too much.

Don’tworrydon’tworrydon’tworrydon’tworry. Worry.

Now I’m just wasting time. What time is it? 2:03. 2:04. Two hours left. I’ll have missed 2 and ½. Maybe I should just get up.


Breathe. Fidget. Throw off the quilt and duvet.

Sit up. Drawer. Jeans. Drawer. Socks. Creakcreakcreak. Closet, hangers. Flannel because it’s cold. Creepcreepcreep into kids’ rooms and put their covers back on. Close doors without making the knobs crea—close doors and hope they don’t wake up. Close master so the beeps from the lights don’t wake her up.

Light by the table, light on the stove. Coffee? Chance to go back to sleep? Reason you had to pee? Give it up. Give that delicious addictive stimulant that-you-might-need-right-now uuuuup. Headache—totally worth it. Tea. I’ll ebb off with tea. Irish breakfast tea.

Boil. Broil. Toast. Peanut butter. Where’s the peanut butter? Where’s the freaking peanu—oh.

Mixmixmixmixmix. Broiled. Flip. Boiling. Pour. Stand there staring. Broiled. Take out, coat in peanut butter. Blow nose.

Toast to table. Tea to table. Mason jar of water… to table. Blow nose again.
Backpack. Laptop. Paper. Pen. Open. Password. Sit. Twitter. MSWord.

Now type. What to type about? Stare at last cluster. Toast. Toast. Tea. Half of mason jar. Pop recently-infected-ear. Whaaaaat to tyyyype…

“Awake.” Blahblahblah. Edit. Done. Post to blog or save for some publication? Would Fathom take this? Would anyone? I should research what kinds of publications take things like this. Or just blog it. I mean, for what purpose are you writing? What’s more loving?

I’ll just blog it.
What time is it? Ah.

Apparently, it’s World Sleep Day. Coincidental.
Pic’s from out front of my work.

One thought on “Three thirty seven

  1. Hey, Pat’R. What time, you ask? Well, for me it is 7am, Sat. morn. Just read your latest and a couple of entries before it for the 3rd time. Wanted to make sure I followed each link in the “thought chain” you scripted. Mom told me last night that she had forwarded this blog to my email so I could read it when I wanted. So, when I awoke this morning at about 1:15, got up to pee, I made a mental note to read it this morning, after I gave up on going back to sleep, which I did about 3am. Now it’s 7 and Mom and Maddie (who is sleeping in the guest bedroom) are still not up. I’ve had several cups of joe and am fighting off the urge to fix breakfast for myself (until I find out if Maddie would rather I go get some donuts) or wait until the girls are up and let them decide on breakfast. But in the mean time, I have been entertained by the perplexing similarities of our “early morning” routines. It appears that you worry a lot. Guess I do too, not so much about the future (at this late stage in life) but more about the past, the “should-a-would-a-could-a’s and what-ifs”. It would have been much easier, for all of us, if I had just been born a rich man’s son… but then I would probably worry whether I would have turned out to be a spoiled-rotten-scoundrel-brat-son of a rich man. Oh well, we’ll never know the answer to that one. Here’s the thing, though. My worrying days are going to be over, much sooner than yours are, sorry to say. So, I guess I am saying that the worrying never goes away, no matter what stage of life your in. The only things that change are the things we worry about. One thing we don’t need to worry about is whether or not we are loved. We are definitely loved by God and we are blessed by the ones He places in our lives to share our lives with. I love you and your happy little family and your love shows in your children’s smiles


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