Sleepy Heads and Other Stories

I’ve been putting together a scrapbook of some of the things I wrote about during my first 10 years of motherhood. Maybe one day my kids will read it and get a glimpse of what it was like for me when they were little? Some of these memoirs were published in my magazine, a few were just scribbled in journals, and others were posted on a blog that I was obsessively devoted to and besotted with for a couple of years, before the Muse left me for a while and I ran out of things to say. One of my favourite pieces from that era is Sleepy Heads — not because it’s particularly good, but because it evokes for me a whole bunch of vivid memories of times gone by.

Sleepy Heads

I went upstairs to look at the children. First the boy. He’s 6 and wants to grow up NOW. He’s sleeping hard, worn out after 13 hours of non-stop activity. He’s had bed hair all day, and now it’s even beddier after sleeping on it still damp from the bath. He’s lying on his side, high up in his cabin bed like an infant king. One skinny leg with scabby knees is out and over the blue monster duvet. His free arm hugs the cub that’s been his smelly bed-mate since he was born, and he holds on tight to the last surviving scrap of baby-blanket. His lovely full lips are open, drooling a bit on the pillow, doing that pretend sucking thing that he does in his sleep. Perhaps he’s dreaming of the warm, snoozy, baby milk years.

Next the girl. She’s 8, and veers from toddler to teenager and back again. Her beddy teddy is lying on her chest, watching me through the dark with round black eyes, protecting her while she sleeps. She lies on her back, arms thrown wide in pink nightie, on pink pillow, under pink duvet. She was swept away by an enormous yawn as she settled down, insisting “I’m not tired” as her eyes closed. Her face is round like the moon, with wide-apart eyes and long, long lashes. As a baby, she turned her head from side to side as she stirred in her sleep, and she still does that sometimes. With a murmur and a sigh, she dreams of fairies and kittens and Daddy coming home.

They seem so grown up sometimes and so young when they’re asleep. Sometimes I’m afraid to go to bed; I sleep so heavily and I don’t want to leave them alone, even if they are just down the hall. I wonder how much of this quirky little life they’ll remember when they’re big. In their slumber, some of it is being filed into their brains’ long-term memory, some into short-term memory, and some is going straight to the shredder.