Day 206 or Dream Land

Now, we have already established that the days of my life is just a slice of Perfection Pie, so you might think that is true of the nights, as well. You might think that. You'd be wrong. Oh, so wrong.

When it comes to sleep, the night has never been my friend. As a child, I was held hostage to constant, horrendous nightmares. I dreaded going to bed. As soon as my mother would click off my light, I was paralyzed by fear until sleep finally took over. This was made much worse if I was unable to fall asleep before my parents went to bed. I felt a proximal safety while they were awake but that was completely lost when I would see that hall light go dark. I would then lie there miserable and afraid, sometimes for hours. All I wanted was to sleep in the safety of my parent's bed.

This problem has followed me well into adult life. No! I don't want to sleep with my parents. But I have had sleep problems all my life. As a teen, I learned a few tricks. I was allowed a TV in my room. I could then fall asleep to the warmth of a technicolor screen. And as a college student living on my own, my insomnia became a tool rather than a hindrance. When I no longer had parents who cared if I banged around the house all night, I learned to use the time. I was comfortable with 4-5 hours of sleep (and 2-3 hours was not unusual). In that time, my house was immaculate, and I was never behind in my schoolwork. (Oh! What I would do now to be able to live a 19-20 hour day. Alas!) I still needed the television on almost constantly but no longer confined to a bed in a dark, quiet room, my mind was not allowed to run amok. And if I woke from a nightmare, there was the TV waiting to say I was not alone.

So as a parent, I was very concerned about my children feeling safe at bedtime. I was going to be available to them as they needed -- going to sleep, in the middle of the night, whenever. They were never going to suffer as I did, darn it! Well, any of you who watch Dr. Phil know, you create what you fear. And I created terrible sleepers.

I inadvertently taught them that they NEEDED me to sleep. To feel safe in their beds. Which has not only affected their sleep -- it has destroyed mine. No longer an energetic 20-something who could survive with mere moments of shut-eye, I crave sleep. No, I need, Need, NEED sleep. And this is pretty difficult to get when one arm has lost all circulation holding a six year old and ribs are in danger of cracking as a toddler walks her way up and down my side ALL night long. (And of course, all of this happened on one half of a bed -- you know Dad got his full half of the bed!) I have not slept longer than 90 minutes in a row in YEARS. I mean it, years. No hyperbole.

So with last week's move, we got the kiddos a really cool new bunk bed set and insisted that the days (well, nights) of Mom's bed being an Open House were over. But we live in an apartment so the old Supernanny/Ferber/Whatever? method that involved white knuckling hours of my children screaming in misery was out of the question. So I have resorted to rewards (bribes) and staying in the bedroom until they fall asleep (for now). And we are making progress. In fact, my three year old is sleeping better than ever. She has trouble going down but once she's asleep, she is out! And stays out. My six year old is having a harder time but he's doing it with a little middle of the night coaxing.

So you would think that I was doing the happy dance, right? Well, sort of (still not comfortable with that phrase -- sort of. Oh well. Back to topic.) I realize that in some ways, I have replaced my sleep issues with my kids'. Now that they are out of the bed, I need to learn to sleep again. UGH! Will I ever conquer the night? And how do I make sure my kids still know that I am always there for them, even after dark, without going back to having a family bed?

What about you? Do you have issues with the Sandman? Do you let your kids in your bed? If so, when and how did they become independent? Sleepless minds want to know.

Day Fifty - Six

So in my embarrassing truths post, I revealed my love for bad 70s soft rock. I know lyrics to love rock faves ranging from England Dan to Player. (For those who are new and receiving this information fresh, you have my permission to run away screaming). It's really ironic because I came into my twenties in the age of grunge and love me some Pearl Jam, Nirvana, and Tool. In other words, I have a really whacked out Pandora channel list.

So as my husband and I were driving the streets of Austin trying to get our naturally insomniac children to sleep, I am singing along to all the songs on the Barry Manilow channel. He turns to me and says that he thought when his father closed the family pizza restaurant in 1993, he would be free of this music. (So, no, he does not share the love.) The discussion then turned to why in the world I know the difference between Anne Murray and Karen Carpenter. SO obvious, right?

Flashback: 1978. Sunday afternoon. Before cable. My family and I used to go to church on Sunday mornings and then my mom made beautiful lunches which we ate at the dining room table in our church clothes. Afterwards, I would change out of my "Sunday"dress and my clothing of choice was my dad's UT Longhorn t-shirt. This made a perfect dress that would pull down over my knees when I sat.

It was in this shirt that I would sit immediately in front of the stereo speaker. (Evidently, the fears related to sitting to close to the TV did not apply there.) My parents would then play LPs (stacked on the six record automatic drop) or wait for it... 8-Tracks. They played Barry Manilow, Neil Diamond, The Bee Gees, Barbara Streisand, Stevie Wonder... you name it. I could sing the themes to "Foul Play" and "Saturday Night Fever", not to mention every song in the "Grease" cannon. I sang along as they jimmied and jived or emoted and warbled. I boogied with the Commodores and I sang the songs that made the young girls cry. Looking back, my parents might not have been the most discerning of listeners themselves. Wings and The Beatles were played equally with Peter, Paul, and Mary and John Denver. Elvis was in there somewhere, as well.

It was at that speaker that I embarked on my life long love of music and first dreamed of singing for others. I don't know how good or bad I sounded but my parents never dissuaded me from this Sunday afternoon ritual. These are really happy memories. And I had forgotten them until I started serenading my sleep-hating children alongside the Pandora app on my i-phone. So there is a good reason for my love of the bad.

By the time the munchkins were happily in dreamland and we were pulling up to the apartment, my husband had no greater appreciation for the music (though he did sing along to Harry Nilson as we exclaimed that we "can't live if living is without you") but he better understands this unnatural obsession. Or he is only confirmed that I truly am crazy and is looking for a suitable long-term solution, but let's go with the former thought, shall we?