And it goes downhill from there. I lie awake and as the minutes tick by I continue to calculate how much sleep I'll get if I fell asleep right now. Six hours forty-five minutes, six and a half hours, six hours fifteen minutes...
I need a lot of sleep. I always have. My husband can pop out of bed and zip to the kitchen, putz around, make coffee, all while whistling happily that another day has started.
Me? When the light of morning hits my eyes and I realized that I'm beginning to wake up, I groan, fight it, burrow down deeper and try to slip back into my last dream. Sometimes it works, and I can pick up right where I left off, as if I had cracked open the book I was reading and started the next chapter.
Usually not, though. Generally when I start to wake up, I have no choice. My cats seem to sense that I'm waking and the start walking all over me, purring and bamming their heads against mine for attention.
My M.O. for over a decade now has been to loll in bed (barring those months with newborns)(well, even then sometimes)(okay, usually then, too) while I wait for my hubby to bring me a steaming mug of black coffee. Once the aroma hits me, I start to get the wherewithall to get my morning started.
In the past couple of weeks, however, my son has been the one to "surprise" me with my cup of coffee. Each time, I marvel...how did my little boy get to be big enough to carry hot liquids up a set of stairs?
Thing is, he isn't little. He's ten. As of today. The double digits.
Honestly, that's part of the reason I had a hard time falling asleep last night. Not only was I counting down the hours I had left to sleep, I was also calculating the number of hours it was until the hour of my son's birth the following morning.
Twelve hours, eleven and a half hours, eleven hours...