Dear Mom, with love, P.S. What's for Snack?

Dear Mom,

It has come to our attention that you are seeking to engage in this unproductive activity known as sleep. Given the nature of our needs and business (24-7), we find this disruption in your on call response time to our wishes to be an unacceptable arrangement. Should you persist in rendering yourself voluntarily unconcious for 1-8 hours on a daily basis, it could jeapordize your position here.

Some helpful suggestions from upper management which arranged an emergency meeting to discuss your recent insistence on time off in between the hours of midnight and five a.m.  The proposed solutions are enclosed within for your consideration and adoption. 

1) caffiene in large quantities on a continual basis
2) electronic implants that ring when your eyes enter into the REM cycle, (A cursory google search indicated such things are possible and probably only slightly painful). 
3) a talk radio stationed at your side at all times to give you 24-7 streaming non stop noise. 

  

Additional suggestions considered were, the creation of a less comfortable bed, or an elimination of the bed in its entirety. However, others on the managment of parental units team vetoed this as the afformentioned bed has proven useful as a place to fold laundry, have a snack, and have a heart to heart about what needs to be done before tomorrow.

It is a useful conference spot. So it stays.

Please however, refrain from abusing this privledge by sleeping. Such luxuries are reserved for those you serve.. Speaking of which, the powers that be wish it to be known that they ought not to be summoned from their restorative cycles of meditation, reflection and destressing before noon during non school days, not for food, not for laundry, not for errands, maybe for food...it depends upon what is being served.

Anyway, as an added bonus, the board all chipped in to get you a yearly suppy of Red Bull. We’re sympathetic to the need for an assist and happy to help in this small way. You’re welcome, but no more sleeping on the job.

Sincerely, with love,

The Children.

P.S. What's for snack?

Sleep Regulations of Mom and Dad

We your parents love you always.  Having said this, we've also discovered in the course of years of experimentation, we need this thing called sleep more than any of you knew possible.  Since none of you seem interested in fostering this physical need of ours, the time has come to lay down the law. 

We have operational hours...6 AM to 11:00 PM, Monday through Friday.  Saturday and Sunday, the hours alter to 8 AM to 11 PM. 

Emergencies may happen, you have needs which exceed these hours, and you are welcome in such circumstances.  However, it seems few know the difference between an emergency and ordinary inquiries.  Please refer to the following handy dandy chart to avoid confusion, faux pas and interrupting much needed Mom and Dad REM sleep. 

Before you knock...

Does this situation involve someone having a problem with a bodily fluid? 
If so, KNOCK. 

Does this situation involve someone raiding the refridgerator of the last sleeve of thin mints?
If so, don't knock.  Tell the person to leave a baggie of four for Mom for the trouble and to share the rest of them.   

Does the situation involve someone arguing over a toy?
Go to bed.  Leave the toy outside our bedroom door. 

Does the situation involve anyone being sick in some fashion? 
Knock.  Knock until you get an answer.

Does the situation involve a nightmare? 
Knock.  We will awake and help make it better.  That's what Moms and Dads do. 

Does the situation involve a dispute over technology?   Turn all of it off.  It should have been off hours ago. 

Does the situation involve needing water?
You are stalling.  If you can come knock on the door, you can get water from your sink.  Do not knock.

Does your situation involve signing papers...forgotten homework?  We'll talk about this in the morning.  We'll sign the papers.  Leave a note for me to wake you up early. 

Hope this clears everything up.  Sweet dreams.   Love you all.   Good Night. 

Mom Hours

Everyone thinks when you have a newborn, sleep is something you aspire to have.  However the reality of parenting is, for pure sleep deprivation, nothing tops teenagers.  

Babies nap.  Babies have simple needs.  Eat. Change.  Hold.  Sleep.
Teens send you text messages at ten in the evening while you're folding laundry, "Are you going to the store?  Because we're out of bananas."  I sent back, "Where are you when you texted this?"
"In bed."   "So you want to know if I would get up, get my purse and drive to the store...before or after folding the laundry?"   The teen had the grace to send back, "No. I'm not in bed. I'm at school and I've been hard at work all afternoon, studying, studying, studying. I in no way would ever dream of asking you to go out after working all day if I'd not done the same.  Good night!"  

Evening patrols to guarantee lights out mean policing cell phones, taking the cord for the Wi-Fi on occasion, and reminding people that yes, there are after hours, when everything including the kitchen should be closed.   I find the hours between 1 a.m. and 5 to be most likely to be in compliance, but it's never quite a lock..  

At five, I've heard one rising with the proposal of a morning jog.  Believing in sleep as a normal part of life, I've explained,  once we get to morning hours, if the sun isn't up, you aren't to be out.  However I have the equivalent of electronic roosters all over the house.  My cell goes off at 5:50 and there are at least four alarms which blare at six, though to my knowledge, none of them rouse actual children, just me.

So nestle up with those newborns and enjoy this restful stage of life and remember, this is all just training for later.  This part of the road of parenting you're on?  It's the wide easy part.  

Night Shift

New moms get all the breaks. People advise them, "Sleep when the babies sleep," and bring ice cream.  Friends and family suggest date nights and "taking time for me."  

It makes sense.  Rookies need time to adjust to the reality of motherhood, which is not baby waking hours but every hour since the baby first came to be.   I used to joke, parent hours are from five a.m. to twelve midnight, but that was before I had teenagers.

Between teens on dates, teens with jobs, track and field hockey and all the other treats of summer, the window of non-necessary time has shortened on both ends.  My body is missing that extra hour.  Last night, I dreamed I was sleeping.  How tired do you have to be to have your subconscious fantasize about being unconscious?  

My daughter laughed when she saw "Sleep" on my to do list for the day, but I'm serious.

Last night, the four year old came to us at midnight because she had nightmares.  After cuddling, she took herself back to bed at one.  I figured, good for the night.  The light went on at 1:30.  A teen wanted a snack.   The light went on at 4 a.m.  My youngest son needed a change.  He had the grace to curl up at my feet in his blanket after I cleaned him up, but I hadn't the energy or the will to move him.   At 4:30, the four year old returned.  No reason, she just got in bed.

Within fifteen minutes, both children slept perpendicular to the bed, giving me a pillow sized space in between.  I cursed myself for checking the time.   Forty-five minutes until the first alarm.

I could get up, get a jump on the day, get dressed...I'd just opted "No." when  the son with cross country tryouts came running down the stairs to make sure I was awake so he wouldn't be late.

My brain sang a version of the Lego song in the shower.

Everything is awful.
Everything hurts when you don't ever sleep.
Everything is awful
....when you don't get to dream.

A diet coke later, I'm on the road wondering if it would be better if the teenager with a learner's permit took the wheel when he told me I drove like an old lady.   I'd sat at the red light musing about the idea of doing nothing all day for several days.   I imagined floating down a river, sitting at a pool, and feeling strained to open a book, lift a fork or even flip over to tan evenly.   The light turned green.

I told him, there is never a situation when calling someone an old lady is a compliment, it was very early, I hadn't slept and it was closer to home than the school such that his taxi felt taxed to be transportation at this point in the day.  

He had the grace to mend his speech....though the substitute of Wise for Old, wasn't too much of an improvement.

Worse, my body is starting to adjust, to wake up after four hours, expecting to have to do something.

So I've begun strategizing.  There isn't a manual for parents of older children on how to get them to understand, you're closed.  I've tried saying the Internet and the server is down, I'm going offline, off the grid, I'm done, but they don't understand my being tired if they're not.

In the meantime, I've crafted the beginnings of a plan.

First Rule:  Post hours of operation, pad the hours on both ends.  

Second Rule: Have incentives for teens who allow 8 hours that rival Price is Right Showcase Showdowns.  Pay for each hour over six you're allowed to rest.  I've got a coupon for Amazon and one for pizza.  All yours if I get to Carpe Diem the night.

Third Rule:   If all else fails, I'm  finding a cheap artsy movie theatre and wearing dark sun glasses. I will pay for the opportunity to sit still for three hours.  I just hope I don't snore.

Miracle Drug to Cure Everything!

That's right!
I found the fountain of youth!

This little wonder can help you lose weight, gain patience, improve mental clarity and muscle coordination.  It relieves stress.  It improves physical performance.  And best of all, it doesn't involve exercise.

Not only that, taken regularly, it has long term life rejuvenating effects. It strengthens the immune system, heightens creativity and reduces the signs of aging.  

Further, it is all natural. There are no harmful side effects the require a lawyer to speak with auctioneer style clarity and speed listing how wrong things can go.  It's also free and available for use by people of all ages. 

Yes.

You guessed it.

I went to bed early.  

Hints for Going to Sleep.

School starts in one week. I pointed out that we needed to get serious about sleeping.  I pointed out that  Bed time will be enforced.  Even worse, I will expect you to 1) actually sleep and 2) get up in the morning and 3) function. Reality is hard and it is coming in seven days.

But I love you and I'm sympathetic to your struggle to avoid the sandman at all cost, to enjoy every second of summer by cramming more wakeful minutes into each day.  Last night, I think there were two to three hours when someone wasn't up for some reason.  I'm starting to need daily naps to keep up with these people.

Enough is enough.  So I started to rant....

"It is clear that none of you believe R.E.M. time is necessary for continued mental health.  The past month I have sat outside your doors, read stories, said prayers, given huggies, kisses, sippy cups with ice water, brought in fans to keep you cool, change your blankets to make them softer, allowed for stuffed animals, classical music and extra pillows.  None of it has worked. 

So now we're in crunch time and I'm annoyed.
 
Welcome to sleep boot camp. I'm your drill sergeant mom and I'll be making sure you crumb crunching kiddies get your zzzzs!  Drop and give me 40 winks soldier!  For the next few days you will after dinner get showered, brush your teeth and present yourself clean and ready for bed duty within sixty minutes of clearing the table.  The lights will be turned off.  There will be no talking.  No switching of beds.  No last minute bathroom breaks, searches for books or requests for band-ades.  

From 9 to 6, you may not wander.  You may not sneak down to the Wii or computer or even read.  You may not turn on the lights. You may not go into your sister's room to turn on or off the music.  You may not have a pillow battle or get a midnight snack.  You may not get your cute toddler sister a midnight snack.  No nightmares.  No I'm cold. No I'm hot.  No I can't sleep.  If you aren't sleeping, let me tell you what I want you do to and I want you to do it, to do it every night, and to do it without informing me that you are doing it.  If you can't sleep and you've tried everything, there's only one thing I want you to do. 

And that one thing is:  Fake it.

That's right.  I want you to lie there, bored, in bed, lights off, mouth shut, breathing.  That's it. That's all.  That's final.

Rest.  Rest all night.  Trust that I really do know what I'm doing when I tell you it's bed time and that you'll feel better tomorrow for it. So Prayers. Love you. Good night. Sweet dreams and See you in the morning!" 

It was a beautiful rant and it might have even worked except the baby woke up and started crying. 

Are You Happy?

"Are you happy?" was the catch title on the magazine.  I didn't pick it up but the question lingered.

I thought it an odd question, one which theoretically requires only a "Yes." or a "No." and yet it begs with either answer, "Why?" 

At two in the morning, the answer woke me up from sleep and came spinning out of my brain.   Was I happy?  Yes. 

Why?

It wasn't because my life was easy.  That week we'd dealt with a broken dryer, throw up from two children, one really awful grade, the bills, collecting of paperwork for taxes and an unwanted three extra pounds.  Top that with college looming for the oldest, the youngest being only two months old and a three year old that kept having set backs on pottying and certainly by the world's standards, I should be miserable if not insane to boot.  

Yes I should be prematurely gray and worn thin. Ten children lead to exponential messes if even half drop their shoes, coats and backpacks at the door when they explode out of the car.  Ten beds to make or at least check, thirty three meals in a day and sixty-five items of clothing plus possible sheets and towels loom every evening by the washing machine.  There is always a list.  This week two need hair cuts, we need to get an oil change, three dressers should be threaded for clothes out of season or that don't fit and I have to schedule four dental appointments, order a birthday present, get track shoes and we have music lessons on Tuesday.

With pasta, hot dogs and waffles as regulars on the weekly menu, vacations that are mostly camping or to see family and a 12 passenger van that often is filled with stuffed animals, stickers and coats that have been orphaned, it seems I should at the very least feel discontent and dissatisfied. Like a modern day Rapunzel trapped in a tower of old french fries, diapers and broken crayons, (all of my own making), waiting to make a mark on the world in some way other than mothering, I should be screaming "Calgon Take me away." But the inescapable fact of the stillness of 2:32 a.m. as I listened to the faint sound of my son's radio, my two year old singing in his sleep and the gentle sigh of milky contentment from the baby, was.... I am happy.

Even with three year old sneakers and maternity jeans because the others don't fit quite yet, it didn't matter and I couldn't stop the happiness.   It was pouring out like an endless bubbling fountain and yet I felt full; the fullness of my happiness echoed my youngest daughter's happiness at being full. 

Back to the question. Why?

Because the world does not quite get happiness. 

It can't because happiness is not of this world.  Happiness is not the absence of work or total ease of life.  (Celebrities would be example 1 of how having all your appetites sated and all your worldly needs addressed in abundance and being even surrounded by success and beauty have nothing to do with actual happiness). Happiness is and was and will always be a state of grace, brought on by having meaningful things to do, people to love and a relationship with the Divine that acknolwedges that all of this, good, bad, messy and ugly, difficult and seemingly impossible is practice.  We are testing how much we will love in this life; how close we dare skate to God in our fallen state.

With a beloved husband and ten alarmingly interesting people to serve and nurture thorugh this life, my life could only be understood as lavishily happy, shamelessly joyful, luxiouriously luminously laborious but peaceful.   Was I happy?  Yes. Yes.  A thousand times yes times a thousand more yes.

3:07 a.m.   Now.  If the question had been, "Are you rested?"  Different story.

Pillow Talk

Sometime after a child manages to climb out of the crib, he or she decides that Mom and Dad’s bed is the only place to hang out after dark. Consider our latest two-year-old, who views head butts as a means of greeting a sleeping adult. At four in the morning, usually one is only dimly aware of having the covers invaded. Most of our earlier two year olds were content to snuggle up to the parent of their choice and hope general fatigue would prevent eviction.

Not so this one. She Who Would Be Two must have an audience on which to work her kewpie doll toddler magic, so Mom or Dad must wake up.

Wham!****

Curiously, the intensity of pain increases as one becomes more alert.

Oh, ow, ow, Ow, Ow, OW, OW, OW! I’m up. I’m up. Ow! I’m up.

She Who Would Be Two, having accomplished objective one, has started phase two of her plan, singing a soft sweet lullaby as if nothing happened. She hopes to melt any potential irritation brought on by a throbbing head and tender nose with cuteness. She looks at me and giggles. It works. Her Father and I the Mom have a standing rotation of alternate nights as to who gets to handle wandering monsters. Nothing happened last night.

It figures.

“Come here.” I the Mom take her in my arms and pull the covers over us both, hoping she will drop off quickly and then I can carry her to her own bed. I the Mom am completely gone in less than a minute.

It’s boring sitting in the dark with two sleeping adults who should be up and playing games with She Who Would Be Two.

She dimly recognizes that if she pushes too hard, either Her Father or I the Mom will carry her back to her own bed. So She Who Would be Two tries finding a comfortable position. For the uninitiated to the world of toddlers, this involves stretching to one’s maximum height and lying down perpendicular to the adults, ensuring that most of the real estate of the mattress is in the toddler’s domain. (It’s just more comfortable that way).

Adults vaguely aware of losing property rights, scoot and contort their bodies in an effort to remain unconscious for as long as possible, even allowing legs or arms to drape off the edge or surrendering all covers and pillows as a concession for being allowed to continue sleeping. Alas, appeasement seldom works. She Who Would Be Two remains listless.

There is a phone next to the alarm clock, keys, wallet, a CD player and a lap top. She Who Would Be Two has watched her parents use these. They look like fun. I the Mom somehow register that in the middle of the night, something is not right and open one eye to discover the wallet has been emptied. She Who Would Be Two has also turned off the alarm and placed a call. She is still talking on the phone. Someone is answering her back.

Fully alert, I snatch the phone from her hands. "Hello." I say into the phone a bit too loudly. "I'm sorry my daughter..." It is a recording. I hand the phone back to my tearful daughter and tell her to hang up. She is satisfied with an "How Rude." look at me as she hangs the phone up.

Taking back the keys and the wallet, she pouts at me. She's in the wrong and I feel bad. She sucks her thumb and shuts her eyes in a contented smile and pulls the covers up. I was going to move her. Looking at her sweetly almost sleeping, I can't believe I would be so cruel. Then I'm mad I'm such a sap.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! The early get up and agoing alarm has sounded, waking She Who Would Be Two but not Her Father. She cries.

The conscious adult I the Mom must then make the calculated judgment, difficult at a predawn time. Should I get up? Should I take her to her bed? Can I go back to sleep? If I get up now I could….insert tedious task here.

Changing diapers, offering water and tucking in doesn’t earn much time in the morning, but it does stand the outside chance of predisposing She Who Would Be Two to go to sleep or at least lie quietly in the bed for a little while. Following the dutiful adult routine, the now completely zombified I the Mom returns to bed, just in time for the second nag alarms to sound their evil call. Hitting the snooze, I crawl under the covers, sleep is coming fast, I the Mom can feel it.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! I wake again, feeling the tender part of my nose, a parting gift from She Who Would Be Two. Making a fist to smash the alarm, I the Mom blink and survey the room. There is a new trail of toys showing the path the toddler took to get to Mom and Dad’s room. Picking up a stuffed monkey puppet, naked Barbie, three shoes, sippy cup and bed spread, I the Mom swallow a yawn while considering the morning ahead.

Can I collapse the schedule to grab another fifteen minutes or will slowness now result in a hectic day where every event would be easy if only I had fifteen more minutes then. Just as I’ve abandoned common sense and put my feet into the cave of the still warm blankets, She Who Would Be Two is back.

“Breakfast.” She Who Would Be Two says expectantly with all the innocent sweetness and full sincerity she can muster.

It’s not going to work this time I the Mom think as I set my will. I’m going to sleep.

“Breakfast.” She Who Would Be Two repeats.

When she ages, maybe I'll rechristen myself I The Mom Who Sleeps.

Visits from the Writing Fairy

At three am, I am the most brilliant writer on the planet. Or I could be. Every night, the writing fairy visits around that time and wakes me up with plot twists for the book that I’ve been working on for over a year, or ideas for blog shorts or concepts for columns. I’ve tried leaving a pencil and paper next to the bed but that means waking up and writing. Most of these evenings, the conversation in my brain goes a bit like this:

“And you could write a piece on the gargoyle…your daughter’s current obsession with gargling every beverage she’s offered or procures…”

“That’s stupid.”

“No…really, there’s the pun… gargle/girl…you like puns…and the fact that one time her brother laughed and so she laughed and the milk shot out…”

“That’s just gross.”

“And then the time she tried to gargle spaghetti.”

“Okay. Solid foods should not be tried even by professionals.”

“See? It’s a good idea.”

“I don’t know. It’s hard to stretch to more than 200 words.”
“Just write it down with the pencil.” She offers eagerly.

I look around. At some point in the day, someone needed a pencil and I gave it to them. Getting a pencil means getting up.

Alas, inspiration does not care about my need for rapid eye movement, or the fact that I’m six months pregnant and sleep is a precious commodity with a market value greater than the current asking price for a barrel of oil in my life’s version of Wallstreet.

“If you don’t write it down, you’ll lose it. Look, I’ll start your column off this way, here’s the first line…”

“I’m getting up. I’m going to the bathroom, I’m getting a drink of water, but I’m Not firing up the computer. I’m going back to sleep.”

I get up. I do the things I said I would do. I get back into bed.

The writing fairy is back. She’s been busy thinking about deus ex machina as a underpinning element of the book. She’s come up with all these examples and even has helpful resources I need to check out. I should email my brother for scenes of the Mediterreanean. I should write that scene where Helen and Hector and Priam and Paris are playing a game of some sort, tiles or dice, rather like gin, on the high top of the tower of Illiam and see on the horizon, the very first ship.

“Oh…that’s good. I can see that scene…but I don’t know what games they played in ancient Troy.” My will is crumbling.

“There’s always the internet…and you have those two books you haven’t read on Sparta and Ancient Greece…” The writing fairy senses weakness.

I look at the clock. It’s not decent. I can’t even rationalize this on the grounds that I wanted an early start on the day it’s so late. Irritated, I find a crayon and jot down a few notes on the pad. It’s 3:23 am. “I’m going back to sleep. Just, please, please, please, visit me tomorrow when I sit down at the computer after lunch okay?”

“It’s now or never. Tomorrow, these will be all gone unless you write now.”

And I know it’s true. I ruminate over all the times I’ve had ideas I knew were great to write about that are gossamer threads by the middle of the afternoon. Telling myself that I only think they’re great because I can’t remember doesn’t help.

The bed seems like an extravagant place to be wasting time. Stubbornly I lie there and it’s already too late. I think about how I could order the chapters in the book and the scaffolding that I need to lay in for the middle. I think about uninterrupted time at the computer that is 100% guilt free, as I am neglecting no one but myself.

The scenes are painted before me in lush detail. The dialogue is even good and keeps going. I’m trying to make myself repeat the words but it’s moving faster than I can. The crayon isn’t helping.

I’m up. I’m in the kitchen. The computer button is pushed. In the thirty seconds it takes for the machine to warm up, the writing fairy has left and I pull up the page and stare at the white sheet and wonder…what was it I wanted to say? Gibberish pours fourth and I keep typing. Time slips away and suddenly, an hour after I started, I remember, it’s really late. Saving and feeling as virtuous as if I’ve gone to the gym, I return to bed. The writing fairy returns with more ideas but I’m tired.

“These ideas are BETTER than the ones you had before…”

“Really?”
“Really, you could do a theological piece for the paper on the spiritual gifts of summer…”

“And get paid?”

“And get paid!”

And I scribble a few more things with the red crayon before the brain hits a solid wall. As soon as I turn off the light, I’m dreaming.

The next morning,I look at the red markings and wonder if I can make them out. I start to remember what I already wrote and it seems tired and awkward, adolescent and trite.

The next time I’m thoughtful about writing, it’s after 12 noon. I fire up the laptop hoping there’s something worth saving from my late night indulgence. I try to remember the ideas that I let slip by but all I can think of is breakfast this morning and how today, my toddler tried to sing happy birthday while eating fruit loops with milk with her mouth open, and even worse, she taught the baby and her older brother how to join the chorus.

As I stare at the screen with an odd mixture of Ancient Greece and the theological implications of summer and expectorated circular cereal, all I can think is... ”Man! I could use some sleep.”

The Sun and also My Daughter Rises

It doesn’t matter what time of night it is, if a door creaks or a light switch flicks, my toddler’s wide awake and comes a calling. So desperate am I for a night without the uninvited two year old guest, preventative measures have been taken.

The other day, I left the door to the bathroom ajar such that a late night visit would not cause the tell tale squeak that summons her from her stupor to my bed. Unfortunately, I had neglected to brief my husband on said plan, and as such, he closed the bathroom off, rendering my plan of stealth moot, in that it was no longer mute.

Her daddy sleeps through these late night visits, thus he did not understand the scope of the problem. Our lovely daughter only rests fully stretched out, perpendicular to the bed, giving Mom a measurable five inches of fighting room, which at six months, is insufficient to the cause.

So, we had a briefing on the issue two nights ago and the door remained ajar. Alas, I had not reckoned on maternity to be inflicting me with 2 am hiccups, necessitating not only a door opening but a light and sink tap turning. She was in my bed before the water graced the cup.

Now I know people are thinking, just take her back to bed.

We’ve done this. I have even gone to the extreme measure of waking her father to carry said toddler back to bed multiple times in a night. She views being deposited there a second time after dark as license to run wild in the home as long as she doesn’t wake you. Juice boxes have been discovered in odd places. There are Hansel and Grettle type trails of Oreos up the stairs from the kitchen.

Once, she figured out the Nintendo and awakened her four year old brother to join in the fun. I have independent verification from our phone bill that one night, she placed a long distance call. If we would guarantee the maximum number of minutes not conscious for adults while maintaining property damage to a minimum, my bed is her bed if she so chooses after 1 am.

There had been talk of getting her a toddler bed, but the idea of not having those four lovely barred walls that sort of hem her in at times, well, I can’t quite give up my crutch. It is true, she climbs out at will. It is true they no longer serve as a reasonable deterrent to her wandering. It is also true that I am not yet up to facing the reality of a range free two year old 24-7.

Last night, I surrendered and went to the couch. She joined me. I returned to our bed. She joined me. I took her upstairs to her crib and curled up with my five year old on her bed.

In the morning, she was in my bed, spoon feeding Daddy a chocolate ice cream breakfast.

In my next life, I’m coming back Dad.

In Defense of REMing...

"Honey? It's seven-thirty, time to get up."

"Did you know that Darpa-funded scientists might have found a drug that will eliminate sleepiness?"

"No. You're awfully informed for having just woke up."

"Radio was left on last night, woke up at 2, heard the report. Couldn't sleep so it was interesting."

"Why didn't you just turn it off?"

"It was interesting. It's a nasal spray containing a naturally occurring brain hormone called orexin A. It reversed the effects of sleep deprivation in monkeys, allowing them to perform like well-rested monkeys on cognitive tests."

"Really? So are you a well rested monkey?"

"No."

"So tell me more about this interesting report."

"Well, I started thinking about the commercials they'd run, inbetween change of possession on ESPN Monday Night Football. A College student wearing a HARVARD sweatshirt looks earnestly at the camera. “I was a party all night kind of guy in high school. Getting a good night’s sleep just wasn’t in the cards and my grades showed it. Now, thanks to Orexin A, I aced my SAT’s and I’m living the IVY LEAGUE life.”

"What are you talking about?..."

"Well, this could really change our society. I've been thinking about the possibilities. Night schools would flourish. Law firms would revamp themselves after hospitals, having clients served by lawyers who worked ten hour shifts managing the same patients, selling their profession with lower salaries and better hours. Early Early shows would become the venue for b-list stars to try and create followings and comebacks."

"Did you get any sleep last night?"

"A little, why do you ask?"

"You're flakier than usual."

"No. I'm informed. I even remember the researcher's name. Hah! Try that gassed monkey. Dr. Michael Twery, he's the director of the National Center on Sleep Disorders Research, said that while research into drugs for sleepiness is "very interesting," he cautioned that the long-term consequences of not sleeping were not well-known."

"Really? I'll phone him now, extreem nuttiness and oddly strong retentive recall powers abound."

"Thanks. But this medication worries me. As a devout wearer of bunny slippers, I want my bedtime! I need my winding down time to read a book, take a bath and brush my teeth. I need to stretch out on the mattress and say, “Yes…no more work for today.” And I don’t want that time to become an indulgence rather than a necessity."

"You don't own bunny slippers."

"Figure of speech love. If this medication becomes as ubiquitous as caffeine and chocolate and Viagra and allergen meds, society will expect us to put in 20 hour days. No thank you. Being able to excuse the fact that I haven’t written the Christmas cards yet or folded all the clothing on the fact that even I, need at least six to eight hours of down time to function, will become unreasonable. I don’t want another 56 hours in the week when I could be doing something."

"Me neither."

"As the medication becomes more popular, not taking it will be viewed as a form of sloth."

"Like not having a cell phone is considered being unprofessional?"

"Exactly. No one used to expect that people would be 100% reachable after hours or on vacation but now, everyone gets annoyed if you don't return an email after two hours."

"Bet it's unhealthy."

"It may not cause mood swings or have unpleasant side effects, but purposeful stillness absent being dead is something this society is rapidly losing as an experience. It’s odd, we go to work at jobs where we scarcely move, to earn money we seldom physically touch, to the gym to walk without getting anywhere, and with this new technological advance, perhaps to a bed but not perchance to sleep or dream. Not counting the time we spend stuck in traffic, where we wait to move, our lives are becoming one long sisyphian pursuit of the unreal. How much more of our lives can we find a way to render superfluous to working?"

"One would imagine that the refined versions of these same medications will eventually reach a point of being able to make sleep utterly unnecessary."

"Being on call 24-7 is one thing. Being awake 24-7 is another. I’m tired just considering the possibility."

"Me too. Are you getting up now?"

"No! In fact, in civic protest and in case this ever comes to pass, I am sleeping in today, while it's still socially acceptable. Carpe REM!"

"Alright. Alright, I'll get up and turn off the alarm."