Sleep

"To sleep, perchance to dream". Doesn't that sounds like the best thing? Sweet sleep and some sweet dreams. Ok, I guess it's not from a very warm and cozy play, but at least the sentiment is nice. I can tell you what my dreams are made of: sleeping on nice flowy white sheets, with a soft breeze gliding through the room, waking up to the sound of the birds chirping outside and the smell of pancakes cooking in the kitchen. That's the stuff. Really.

I was walking along the streets of Brookline early one morning, sipping my freshly made Starbucks hot chocolate, thinking to myself that I'd better find a nice long street so that I won't constantly have to think about where to go and which turn to make. So that my road can be straight, and I can be pushing my sleeping child in her stroller without thinking much of anything.

Did you ever notice that all moms with young children have the same look on their face. Underslept, overtired, puffy eyes. We nod to each other the same way that bus drivers nod to each other as they pass. The sort of acknowledgement of the woes and difficulties. The acknowledgement that we understand, better than anybody else on the street.

I loathe mothers who walk out, composed, with make up on, with clean pressed clothing, and head out confidently with their stroller to their Pilates or some other such thing. Then I have to remind myself that in the last 6 months, there has probably been 1 occasion when, with the help of someone, I got out of the house without getting pucked on in the stairwell, with my hair composed, with some makeup on, and with decent clothing. I don't go to pilates. That's the next hurdle. Perhaps baby ups can count for exercise for another two months or so, and then I'll have to find a real exercise routine.

And so, dear readers, I must say: "Goodnight and good luck". May your night be restful. May your baby, if you have one, seize fighting sleep for this just one evening and may you get all the sleep your dreams are made of.