Saturday morning, the first thing I did was remark on how rested I felt. Now, this was not an amazing 8 hours of sleep rested. More like, I forgot how nice it can be when my daughter doesn’t wake me up 20 times a night rested.
The next thing I did was wonder how sad it was that I think being woken up 5 (6?) times a night makes for a decent stretch of sleep.
In all honesty, I awoke that morning with an energy I hadn’t felt in months. Where I’ve been accustomed to feeling like I’d rather crawl back under the covers, I was instead ready to go. The majority of my day wasn’t spent half-dozed in front of my laptop, but being productive. My daughter and I read books together, multiple times over. I even managed to sympathize with Buzz’s outbursts in place of raising my voice. I broke up fights without yelling. I gave hugs and played tag and divvied out cupcakes. I was cheery and laughing and damn right chipper, considering.
If I didn’t know better, I could have sworn I could fly.
Which isn’t to say that I still didn’t have my moments. But I wasn’t wallowing in my normal fit of despair before 11 a.m. My head managed to stay above ground until almost 3. That’s 4 extra hours of being present. Of being the kind of mother I wish I was more often.
All because my daughter didn’t wake me up the night before as much.
It’s been so long, I don’t even know how I’d react with 8 full hours of sleep. If I can feel this accomplished after still being riled awake every hour, though, just imagine the possibilities. It’s a scary thought, actually.