During the weekend, I’m used to only having a few hours of time to myself while Zoë is out with her dad. Usually the five hour visit each day actually translates to three or four once her inability to get ready to go expediently and the nearly constant ability he has to bring her back here early to pee, is factored in.
During the week, I get 2.25 hours, twice, while she’s at preschool, but that doesn’t take into account the half hour each of walking to and from it.
This weekend is her second sleep over with her Grandma, and by extension, her father – something his mom’s proposed take place once a month. She left at 10:30 yesterday morning, glowing with excitement after I gave her an extra-squishy hug and two extra kisses.
Today, I slept in until 2:30 in the afternoon, essentially negating the sleeplessness that going to bed at or after 4am usually leaves me running dead on my feet with. Today, I’m mild-mooded, even mellow.
Yesterday after they left, after my nerves had returned to full strength from the mild disagreement her dad and I had, and before another disagree ensued over text messaging – because once again, we’re back to that place wherein me not sleeping with him equates to be being the enemy – I got things done.
I, like everyone I know, especially single moms, have a backburner list a million fucking miles long. I started dealing with some of the things on that list. I got some paperwork done that’s been begging for my attention for months; I washed dishes without needing to occupy a child to do so, or concurrently while making dinner; I went Christmas window shopping, sending myself text photos of what, where and the prices of things we would want to buy in the coming month.
I felt like a million dollars, more so than keeping up with the daily to-do list, less like I was merely treading or suffocating under a tide. I felt manic.
I joked over dessert with friends at 11 pm that the medication I’ve been taking to help manage the mania might be failing in that regard, but that it was okay with me, since it was managing the lows. And all win with little fail is about as perfect an existence as I can imagine living.
When I woke up this afternoon, I looked at the clock and cringed, thinking of the hours lost, the lack of productivity. Until I realized that sleep was productive. Until I rolled off of the futon and immediately started cleaning, and then got dressed to go outside.
Once I saw that I had an intrinsic drive to keep going, to shop with laze and enjoy the taste of my eggnog chai latté, not to hurry or become harried with should dos, a new thought occurred to me:
Being relaxed means I get more done, better; being stressed leaves a bad taste on my tongue, regardless of how many check marks are on my list.
I should be sleeping more.
