America, Iceland, Germany, Jet lag

Thom, Lee, Vin, and Ned in Reykjavik

I woke up this morning a little before seven--about the time I usually stir without the interference of alarms and children. It was 1 a.m. in New Jersey.  

Errol grunted that he had slept in the kids’ room for a few hours.

He is now the firstresponder to night wakings.  I turned in my badge when the twins started preschool.
  
Thom was wide-awake at 2 a.m.
Vinnie cried a lot.

“Oh, no. Are her worms back?”
“I didn’t see any.  Their little bodies just don’t know what time it is.”

Oh, those little bodies. How familiar I am with those four little bodies.

​Ten years ago when Thom was a baby, my relationship with the clock changed.  Before babies, when I’d unexpectedly wake in the night, it was such a relief to see predawn numbers:  “Only 3:32.  I don’t have to get up for another four hours…”  

Once the babies and their endless needs came, that all changed.  Hearing a child, glancing at the clock, and seeing a somewhat normal waking time, became a delight.

I purposefully took early morning jobs--first at a before-school program and then at a pool--to escape the children’s daybreak needs. It didn’t really make sense. The money was next to nothing and the loss of sleep a certainty, but playing tic-tac-toe with a first-grader at 6:45 beat the possibility of dealing with one of my children at 6.45 after tending them all night.  

A few days before we left New Jersey, Errol told me, “It’s nice that you’ve had bad sleep for so long your body has no expectation of good sleep.”

I do what I can.

Our Freiburg flat is beautiful.  Much too beautiful for my team, I’m afraid.  Each room has huge Oriental rugs, paintings on the walls, and grown-up furniture--not anything that could be found next to a Butler dumpster.  

Our bedroom is particularly lovely but currently taken over with open suitcases and vacuum-packed bags of clothes.

Errol asked, “What’s your plan for today?”
I threw off the covers.
“To put some pants on.”

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