Saturday, September 14, 2013


Thunder rumbles the night and raindrops pat gently against the ground like mice skittering.  My boy's bed creaks.  He's bent on moving, stalling sleep, even though it's time to loll into dreams.

A child fights sleep until the bitter end, but I can say the same about me.

I'm a night owl by nature.

A speck past nine at night and suddenly I'm energized and creative.  That's when I'll pull out books and glue and scissors and begin moving furniture to a more desirable position.

Being a night owl doesn't coincide with mainstream society and the regularity of school buses and breakfast, so I adapt.

I practice being the good mommy who goes to bed at a decent time and who gets up dutifully to fulfill my mommy duties, but each night is a struggle against every cell in my body, telling me to stay up.

There's so much to be had when everyone sleeps.

Tonight's fine.  A weekend night.

I can linger with the late hours and chit-chat and conjure make believe worlds and imagine my living room differently (though it wouldn't be prudent to shove the furniture around now, not with children finally resting in squeak-less beds) and surround myself with my books and scissors and glue.

Darkness has a way of thinning my perceptions of what's normal, altering my angle of view, and I witness something tangible beyond what's offered during wakeful-hours.

There's possibility in these moments.

I cherish them when they come like nourishing gifts, even if all they may do is remind me I am an individual, outside my mommy suit.