Jennifer Schneider
Sleep, as Fleeting as the ABCs/ An Abecedarian: On Weights and Wombs
All right, I say. I’ll give the blanket a try.
Break open the twenty-pound box. Strip the Amazon
cardboard of its single-sided, premium-stick tape.
Do it; Do it now – my children screech in sync.
Each member of my nuclear
family watches for my (re)action, delayed –
gaging, perhaps gambling (silently) on,
how hard a rambling, sleep-deprived me would try.
I suggest a trial of one night, maybe two,
jocularly (judgment denied) when I doubt existing
knowledge of sleep (also its reality) —
Lectures long tried languishing amidst the manufactured mayhem of
mattresses (5-star) and premium box springs. Clinical studies carefully
noted then nixed – efficacy denied. I have learned, instead, to
opine on early-morning hues: pinks, purples, and sleep-deprived blues. On bird calls,
pine cones, and ruffled-feather crests before drifting and dozing
quietly, never quickly, finally. as others rise. Melatonin, no caffeine after hours,
research pioneers like Rechtschaffen regularly consumed.
Shhh… sleep beckons. Nights are never tranquil. Rest perpetually amused. Alarms clocks
tick. Apple and Fitbit devices track. REM on the radio. Never in the goose-down pillow.
Use it, please, my husband pleads. Return windows are closing. I’ll try. The box claims it’s
Verified – unlike restless legs, 1500 thread count Egyptian sheets, and Valerian roots.
Welcome Back to Sleep – the block font winks in oatmeal-colored ink.
Xtra-Long, quilted, a heavy weight. Lavender scented. Sleep correlated with IQ and mood.
Young eyes plead. Please, they say. I nod/hope/think — clasp fingers, then pray, for
ZZZZZs. If only sleep were as simple as the ABCs….
Prayers turn to ponderings. I scratch a persistent itch, then get lost in a cloud of daydreams – of sweet melodies and cherry Life Savers turned a series of sleep-deprived memories. Melatonintrials. Serotonin denials. Late-night TV. Nectar and Cocoon deliveries. Knotted balls of yarn.
Pre-dawn knitting. Oatmeal baths. Organic satin. Oversized sleep masks. Undersized meals. Old wives’ tales. Rabbit fur. Oils. Tarot cards. Mexican street corn. No solid food after eight. Chamomile and honey teas. Nothing too sweet. The sun rises in the East. Sets in the West. Even owls rest. Serta and Sealy wrestle. Many moons boast rings. Vines twist and turn up and down the outside trestle garden. Poinsettias’ petals peek. Bats beat. Hearts hum. Hummingbirds sing. One. Two. Three. ABC. Poof. Clouds weep dew. All dues paid. Grass shrug morning chatter. Are you asleep?
As my thoughts drift, the weighted blanket lurks. Solid and silent. Stoic. Blissfully unaware. At rest. Asleep. No worries about cold feet. Temperature-controlled resistance to heat. Is this what I’ve been waiting for my whole married life. My under-eye bags mock the oatmeal-colored cardboard box. As I prepare to accept its offer (and the promise of rest), my eldest child speaks –
It’s like being in the womb, she reads. Her eyes track and trace the fine print.
With that, I catch my breath and reach into the trash to retrieve the wrinkled receipt. Blanquil might make NyQuil obsolete, but there’s no way I’m returning to a womb. The very thing (more doom than care; more hot air than flare) I’ve spent a lifetime fleeing. No matter the price. Hope for Zzzzz’s quickly fleeting.
Never mind, I say. Process the return. Today.