The boy is sleeping in his own bed. The boy is sleeping in his own bed. THE BOY. IS SLEEPING. IN HIS OWN BED.

And I’m not even afraid of incurring the wrath of the sleep gods by saying so. Well, mostly not. I may need to sacrifice some stuffed barnyard creature as a precautionary measure, and I am certainly going to be knocking any all things wood-derived and I’m going to keep the victorious fist-pumps to a minimum until we’ve got this sleep thing conquered, but –  let’s all keep our voices down here – I’m pretty sure that we can conquer it, the wrath of the gods notwithstanding.

Because we have a strategy now. We have help.  A lovely woman who goes by the superhero handle of The Sleep Doula offered me advice and assistance and it is working and I am so desperately grateful and thankful and hopeful that I’m pretty sure the happy-beams can seen from space.

That’s all that I’m going to say for now – I’m not so unafraid of the sleep gods that I’m willing to wave my middle finger at them while telling them exactly how we’re managing to do this without their help and chortling  oh hai sleep gods: SUCK IT because, you know, that sort of thing provokes them – but I promise that once we’ve got this sleep thing mostly sorted out – because you know that it’s only ever mostly – I’ll share the story of what we did and how it worked, exactly. (Okay. I might share a few details in the comments, if you ask nicely and you promise to whisper. Quietly. The gods, they have big ears.)

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I’m working up to sharing my own ghost/angel/messages-from-beyond story/ies. Because, yes, I have them, but I’ve been shy/embarrassed/emotionally overcome about sharing them. But your stories -and, yes, your counter-stories and reflections on the absence of a beyond – have been such a help to me, such balm for my heart and soul, that I’m no longer afraid to go there. Thank you. (So insufficient, ‘thank you’, but it comes straight from the very deepest part of my heart. THANK YOU.)

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This weekend in My Year Of Believing Dangerously: to go to church, or not to go to church? That is the really, really difficult question. Coming up: reading Montaigne, The Little Prince and the tops of cereal boxes.

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I wanted to make a joke about Big Swinging Dicks at this post, but it seemed somewhat inappropriate.