Guess who slept for 8 hours straight last night? And because I went to bed early, I got nearly that much (save for when I woke up around 4 am because Charles got in bed with us, and then again at 4:30 when the dog had to go out).
Instead of feeling well rested today, however, I’m feeling a bit more tired than usual. I think this is a version of “week after finals syndrome” – remember when you would bust your ass through finals week and then get home for Christmas or spring or summer break and get sick? It’s as though your body just held off the germs, held off the exhaustion until you were done and had time and energy to devote to being sick.
Actually, I suppose what really happened is that once you made it home and mom did your laundry and you had a good meal that wasn’t, for once, chased by a shot of tequila or at least the thought that things would be a lot better if you could just have some tequila but you can’t because of that test the next day or even “isn’t everyone going to a party tonight? If I just finish this ten-page-paper then I can have some tequila and party, too,” that your body stopped fighting the virus or whatever was catching in the dorms last week and so then you got sick. It’s not as though your immune system is sentient, is what I’m saying. It didn’t “hold out” until you could afford to get sick. It held out until you stopped bribing it with tequila.
This is like that. My body recognizes that the 5.5 hours I spent sleeping from 10:30 pm to 4 am last night were the longest bout of sleep I’d had in a long time, so now it can let down it’s guard and allow me to feel clearly just how tired I really am. More sleep, my body is telling me. Give us more sleep!
It’s crazy how more and more frequently parenthood feels like a giant hangover. I’m tired, crabby, sore, my voice is worn out, all I want to eat is cookie dough, and I fall down a lot.
Fortunately, the cast of characters around me is a lot cuter than anyone ever was or could have been when I was hungover (I try really hard to avoid hangovers now). One small monkey, in particular, charmed me this morning by pointing to the dog on my pajamas (yes, I have doggy pajamas) and saying “daah-daaaaah” which is 14-month-old for “doggy.” Then he rubbed his snotty nose on my shoulder, stuck his thumb in his mouth, and settled in for a snuggle. Top that, tequila.
I swear, I’m not even sure what I’m talking about here anymore.