I don't remember if I slept a lot as a baby. Based only on the way my late mother looked at me, I'm guessing I did not. But at least she had some help. When I was born in November 1944, Dad was off in Europe (World War II--and, yes, you dirty-minded folk, he had been home nine months earlier), and Mom, my older brother (by three years), and I were living upstairs in my Osborn grandparents' house in Enid, Okla.: 1609 E. Broadway Ave. (Upstairs, we were 1609 1/2.)
So ... if I didn't sleep, Mom had some help, right downstairs.
Our own son had some sleeping problems early in his life--and I still remember the Absolute Heaven when he slept through the night for the first time. I'd feared that Joyce and I would never again have a full-night's sleep.
We rotated responsibility for him in the night. Joyce would feed him; I would; Joyce would; etc. But one night when it was my turn, I was just Too Damn Tired, and I let him cry a little. He stopped. I crept in and peeked: He was back asleep again! And he never again failed to sleep through the night. This ranks right up there with the greatest gifts ever!
When I was an adolescent, of course, sleeping was as easy as breathing. My parents often let me sleep in on Saturday (better than having me awake, roaming around the house and complaining about how boring Life is!). I could easily sleep till noon.
As I could in college.
As I could during my early years of teaching (my career began in the fall of 1966). On one Saturday, early in my career, before I was married, I slept until four in the afternoon!
Joyce and I married in December 1969, and we both were pretty good at sleeping in on weekends.
Years passed. And both Joyce and I became Early Birds. (My dad had predicted this would happen to me; I scoffed as only an adolescent can scoff.)
By the time I retired (June 2011), I was getting up every morning at 5:10 (no alarm necessary), arriving at 6 at Caribou Coffee, heading then up to school (a walk of about 3/4 of a mile), getting organized and whatnot an hour or so before classes started.
But things had changed.
One consequence of my prostate surgery in June 2005 was some tinkering with my urinary tract, a tinkering that has meant, since that June day, that I must "go" when I get the first message from Down There. And the messages have come ever more frequently as the years have marched along.
I now am up, oh, a half-dozen times a night.
I can usually get right back to sleep. But not always. Sometimes I lie awake from, oh, 2:30-4--or from 3:30 to my customary get-out-of-bed time, 5:45 a.m.
Last night was one of those nights--awake for about an hour and a half in the depth of night. Mind racing. Regrets competing for dominance in my consciousness. Worries.
I don't dare take a sleeping pill of some kind. (My bladder would not understand.)
Sometimes, I'm able to nap an hour in late morning (a remedy I'm going to attempt as soon as I finish this post!). But that doesn't always work. Sometimes, I'm so tired that I'll sleep away an hour or so in the afternoon instead of going to the health club. (I despise working out now--but know I must. Gotta give yourself a chance, you know?)
But here's the thing: I love bedtime now. Look forward to it all day. (Hope Springs Eternal.) It's December, and the thought of warm blankets, talking with Joyce, a good book, streaming something interesting, an increasing drowsiness ...
Anyway, as I'm typing this, my eyelids are drooping. The bed beckons ...
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