That Old, Familiar 2am

I glance up from the computer screen, that old familiar 2am sting in my eyes, and wish my work were already done; wish I had planned better or worked faster. I need more focus, a better approach, clearer goals. No…I need sleep.

My blinking, bleary eyes have seen a lot of 2ams. That 2am attempt to sleep on the floor of the Nairobi airport where I got a sideways view of an entire unit of British soldiers milling about the baggage claim and wondered if I was dreaming. The 2am start to my hike up Mt. Sinai so that I could watch the sunrise from the top and experience a moment of divine clarity like Moses did as the first rays of light burst over the uninterrupted horizon. The 2am where a college friend knew the conversation was just too good and decided to make a casserole to fuel more chatter rather than calling it a night. The 2am I spent making my own, silly music video to “One Night in Bangkok” while wiling away my own one night in the Bangkok airport. That 2am film shoot where I had to wander through the woods looking lost and alone with a crew of 20 people just out of frame. 2am used to be an adventure. 2am was a delicious choice to suck a little more of the marrow out of life rather than sleeping through it.

Then I fell in love, vowed to spend my life’s nights with that loved one forever and soon, my belly grew, and a little aching, needy cry came into my world and 2am was a necessity. When he was small, he needed milk that only I could give, and sleep was secondary. He got a little bigger and then it was comfort that he needed at 2am. I blinked away the sting in my eyes and pretty soon my 2am view was of his baby brother, mouth open wide and little doughy fists reaching out in the darkness for a 2am confirmation that he will always be taken care of. He will. I scooped him close to me and told him so. But who will take care of me?

Now, ironically, the boys sleep through 2ams, but here l am, still awake. I am the editor of a daily magazine, but perhaps it should be called a nightly magazine, because it greedily laps up my nights, growing to fill the hours I couldn’t seem to find during the day, when everybody else needed me. And the later it gets, the slower I work, the longer it takes, the less I will rest. I keep myself awake with sitcoms or showtunes, dance breaks or chocolate breaks, but ultimately the break I need is a good night’s sleep. I’ll be shameless glutton and say I’d like more than one, maybe even one a night.

I used to think I knew what “tired” felt like. It was heavy eyelids, perhaps the occasional undignified nod off or mouth dropping open in a public place. I thought it was that blur when you begin to dream and confuse your imaginings with the plot of the book that just dropped on your face and you know it’s time for bed.

But having babies taught me that chronic, continuous exhaustion without respite is much worse than silly droops and nods and slips; it is the slow loss of optimism, it is the fading away of the vibrant vision you once had for the future. It is the feeling of beginning to wonder if you ever had any talent at all and if it even matters. What “tired” actually feels like, is like having the light in the room slowly dim to darkness without noticing so that you are left wondering why nothing looks like it used to and why you can’t see any further than the next hour or the next day. There is no perspective without rest and there can be no grasping onto the reality of a longed-for future without perspective. “Tired” means spending your days restless to fulfill an unmeetable need and emotionally flaying for a comfort you can never seem to find. But give that same, frenetic, melancholy, and blinded person eight luxurious hours of uninterrupted sleep and suddenly her vision has color again; her skills seem exponentially more in demand; her talents more worthy of praise, and her vision for the future, suddenly bright.

As I dreamed up my goals for another year, possibilities flooded my mind. I want to finish my screenplay and start sending it out to film friends for feedback. I want to take my German from conversational to fluent. I want to paint more murals. I want to be a better neighbor and friend and sister and daughter. I want to lose a little weight, be a little more stylish. I want to take my kids on more outings, have more dates with my husband. I want to write the great American novel. I want to learn to play the piano. I want to be in a play. I want to read everything Louisa May Alcott ever wrote. I want to learn to do aerial silks. I want, I want, I want.

I only chose five goals to write down and strive for this year. Five goals out of the thousands of things I want to experience and achieve and learn. One of them, is to be in bed by 11pm each night. To say a relieved goodbye to 2am. To reclaim the relationship we had, where 2am meant I made a choice that there was something worth staying up for. Something that, just for tonight, was better than my dreams.