Sweet Dreams

Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast.

William Shakespeare, Macbeth


A couple of nights ago when I went into check on Maya and Lily before going to bed, I sat for a while on Maya's bed, watching as her chest rose and fell. She twitched occasionally but was sleeping deeply and sweetly and looked so peaceful. She's now three whole years older than the photo I took of her above when she was just a few months old, but Maya still has the ability to sleep deeply and soundly. When is it, I wondered, that we as adults lose the ability to sleep in this way? I suppose some of us never do. And although I have memories of sleeping poorly which stretch all the way back to childhood, I'm certain it wasn't always this way. I'm sure as a baby and young child I slept through all kinds of noise and disruption.

This week I've been like a yo-yo: decent sleep one night, terrible the next, decent sleep the next night, terrible again the next...Here's the good thing though: At one time, not so long ago, if I was exhausted I didn't want to see anybody and I couldn't face going out much. I would stay at home and try desperately hard to create a pleasant environment for the girls within the energy limitations I faced. But often my intentions would back-fire and I'd end up frustrated with the girls and frustrated with myself. Yesterday afternoon we visited friends and at one point, I thought to myself, hang on a minute - I feel pretty awful, right? But I'm still managing to talk to people quite normally and I haven't even mentioned the 'S' word. It's good for me - no, it's brilliant for me without a shadow of a doubt to break out of my exhaustion box. And as for the 'chief nourisher in life's feast', well, when I have a taste from this feast, no matter how small the morsel, I feel deeply, profoundly satisfied.