I’m not even going to joke about the gods any more. They clearly regard my ambitions to master sleep as akin to donning wings and taking aim at the sun, and every time I speak out loud about those ambitions they smite me. Pride, apparently, really does goeth before a fall, and seeing as the falls that I’m having don’t actually result in anyone losing consciousness, the divine smackdowns for prideful reporting of sleep victories are getting kind of frustrating.

That said, f*ck the gods. (more…)

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.

(more…)

I knew that the gods smite for lesser things than overt celebrations of toddlers sleeping through the night. I knew this, and yet I celebrated. And sure enough, the gods, they smote, and Jasper woke and woke and woke again and ended up, once more, attached to my head in the dark hours before the dawn with two hair-clutching fists.

Still. We’ve had one night. There could be more. There will be more.

Next time, though, I’ll have to tell you all in code. And you will all congratulate me in code, and the gods, they will be none the wiser and we will all sleep happily ever after.

I hope. Because I’m really not up for sacrificing a goat. Not that I wouldn’t if I became deranged enough with lack of sleep, but still.

What I wrote the other day? About sleep? Please disregard.

The gods, they were listening, and they did not approve. That, or you all weren’t making the necessary sacrifices on my behalf. Which I understand, sort of, because good sheets (the sleep gods’ preferred object of sacrifice) are a thing to treasure, but still. We’re talking about sleep here, the loss of which is all the more painful after you’ve luxuriated in its sweet embrace for a couple of days (and after you’ve tossed your supply of Ativan, in premature celebration of your reunion with Morpheus and Hypnos who, it turns out, were just in it for a two-night stand, the bastards.)

I am now going into mourning, and, also, am rummaging through the trash to find that bottle of Ativan.

As you were.