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My deepest, darkest fantasy involves a hotel room and a bed.
It’s not what you’re thinking. In this lustful daydream, I am
completely alone. In some versions, I am wearing flannel, which is one
of the least erotic fabrics known to modern man. It’s second only to
burlap, I believe, or wet wool.
Mine is a rich fantasy, one that I continually embroider new details
for, especially during the single-digit hours of the morning, when I am
convincing one of the children to sleep. I can see my dream bed. It is
queen-sized with clean white sheets and nicely puffed pillows, the sort
that can make even the fussiest head feel like it is cradled in a
cloud. There is a lofty down comforter because the room is just cool
enough that you want to slide under something cozy. Outside, it is
snowing and you can meditate upon the flakes as they float to the
ground. There is a nightstand that contains a lamp, the books I can’t
find the energy to finish, and a small bell, which will summon a
helpful chap (sometimes he looks like Johnny Depp, but then the fantasy
tends to veer into non-flannel areas) who will bring gourmet meals and
fine beverages to my majestic mattress. Otherwise the door is locked. I
have nowhere to be for the next 48 hours.
I’m just all swoony at the thought of it.
The books and the gourmet meals are just window dressing, frankly, and
my vision would still be drool-worthy without them. I don’t know how
much time I’d spend with either and include the books and food as mere
courtesies. No, in the fantasy, I’m burrowed beneath my blankets
tighter than a tick on a hemophiliac. I am snoring. Most likely, I am
also drooling. Every now and again, I might get up to pee, since
including a catheter in the fantasy just seems wrong.
I want this with the same hunger I reserve for really great chocolate
and a romp with the spouse. In fact, if given a choice between an
couple of hours in the same room with the Hub and 48 in there solo and
asleep, I’d be unconscious before the last words of the question made
it out of your mouth. Much, of course, to my husband’s chagrin.
I can only begin to tell you how tired I am. If you have a newborn in
the house, you already know how deep the urge to hibernate can be.
Granted, I’m not doing poorly in terms of quantity of shut-eye. On
paper, I get about seven hours each night, which sound bountiful when
compared to the days when the Dude was even smaller and eating like a
hummingbird.
(continued at right)
The hours aren’t consecutive, of course, and that’s the rough patch.
The Dude generally wakes up a couple of times to eat, even though all
of the books tell me that he should be able to go 5-6 hours without a
meal. The books lie. If he weren’t sucking down 8-9 ounces during each
night feed, I’d think he was just waking up to get some company. But,
clearly, he is still a hungry bird.
The Diva, however, is now waking up for the company and frequently
wants someone to come snuggle with her. She’s caught on to my trick of
simply chucking her into bed with me so that I don’t have to leave my
comforter’s warm embrace. Now she walks into the room and announces, “I
want someone to come snuggle with me. In. My. Own. Room.” Gotta love a
girl who knows her own mind.
The Hub and I hop from room to room all night long. I get enough sleep
to keep me from falling asleep while driving, but not nearly enough to
be sustainable for the long-term. I crave so much more, if only
because my body still seems to be making up for the rigors of birth and
of those first eight (heck, 12) sleepless weeks. By my calculations, I
should be all caught up by July. Of 2008.
I pine for the consecutive hours, after which I would wake up and feel
oddly refreshed. Right now I simply wake up and feel slightly less
exhausted but still pretty dang wiped out. That’s when waking up
happens easily. Most of the time it’s an act of incredible will to
simply open my eyes. Sitting upright is a Herculean effort that
requires all of the gumption I can muster. My college students love to
mention that they’ve just rolled out of bed for my 2 p.m. class. One
day, one of them might die. No court would convict me.
I know. I know. Sleep when the baby sleeps. That is, quite possibly,
the biggest load of horseshit advice that well-meaning-but-clueless
folk foist upon moms. Problem number one is that the baby sleeps in
such erratic patterns during the day that I can’t even begin to trick
my body into complying to his will. I’ve never been a good napper.
While both of my parents can drop off on the couch during a lull in
conversation, I’ve always needed to be horizontal in a quiet,
moderately private room to actually drop off.
Problem number two is that there are two kids and they seem to have a
devised a conspiracy to make sure their parents are always sleepy
enough to be pliable on topics like snacks and treats. If the Dude has
a great night, the Diva is up every hour. And vice-versa. I suspect
that they’re running sleep-deprivation experiments on us for the CIA.
Problem number three is that my house would continually be covered in
crushed Cheerios crumbs and cat fur if I dropped everything and slept.
(I actually feel queasy when I consider what the bathroom would look
like under a regime of benign neglect. Last fall, a small mushroom grew
in the crack between the tub and the floor – and that was despite
relatively diligent attention to the room’s sanitation.) I can’t just
let it go and the helper elves still haven’t shown up. Damn elves.
Problem number four is the fact that I have this job thing. Several of
them, in fact. And while none of them is as difficult or as important
as the care of my kids, I would like to keep working at them. As much
as I’d like to tell my students, “No, I didn’t grade the papers that
I’ve had for the last three weeks because I have to sleep when the baby
sleeps” I just can’t, especially since I get all pissy when they turn
stuff in late.
I know that this will change. Round about age 2, the Diva rocked as a
sleeper and kept it up until her brother arrived. I know she’ll get
back on track eventually, as will he One day, I’ll just laugh and laugh
about this stage when they are teenagers and are never seen conscious
during the daylight hours. But right now, when I’m up for the nth time
at 3 a.m., my only comfort is my fantasy. Maybe if I’m a good little
girl, Santa will put this room in my stocking for Christmas. He doesn’t
even need to wrap it.
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About the Author:
Adrienne Martini has been a theatre technician, apprentice
massage therapist, bookstore bookkeeper and pizza joint waitress. Eventually,
someone started paying her for her words and an editorial mercenary was
born. She has written theatre reviews and features for the Austin
Chronicle, blurbs about tofurkey and bottled water for Cooking Light and
a piece about knitting summer camp for Interweave Knits. She is
a former editor for Knoxville, Tennessee's Metro Pulse and
recently picked up an AAN award for feature writing. In July 2006, her first
book Hillbilly Gothic: A Memoir of Madness and Motherhood will be
published. During the day, she fields freelance gigs and crams
knowledge into the heads of college students in Upstate New York. At all
hours, she is mom to Maddy and Cory, and wife to Scott.
