There is no greater editor in the world than one’s own Mother.  She demanded to know what the heck I was talking about when I said I hate sleep, since when I go to Illinois to visit her she can’t wake me up with an air horn once I’m asleep.

Of course, this will all make sense to her once I explain it.  Last night I went to bed at 11 p.m. and was still tossing and turning at 1:30 a.m., thinking about everything under the sun. Worse, since reading the book The Head Trip by Jeff Warren a few years back which is about the various and sundry states of awareness in our waking life and sleep life, I get excited when I become aware of the moment when one actually goes from waking awareness to sleep, and try to “catch” it which, of course, wakes me up.  I must have done that ten times last night, and it seemed like the more I tried to ignore that millisecond when I went from thinking about work to thinking about refrigerators full of wood burning logs with flowers popping out of them or some such dream state nonsense, the more my mind got a kick out of letting me become aware of it. Then by 1:30 a.m. there was no sense in trying to tell my bladder that I didn’t have to get up and use the bathroom.  There would be no sleep until I took care of that annoying detail.

In Illinois, sweet Illinois, there is no stress, I drift off long before my mind can play such tricks on me.  The train that runs past the neighborhood is a lullaby.  My old room is a dreamy little cocoon where there are no worries, only ghosts of past dreams of a future that may or may not have come true.  I don’t have to get up for work. There are no bills to pay, at least not today.   My Mommy is right there in the house in case I need a mother’s love or an aspirin or Pepto-Bismol.  The only concern is whether or not I can regain my Canasta World Championship title from her today, what movie we will watch tonight, and what to have for dinner.

Mom.  Your home is still just a lovely little cradle for your baby girl, don’t you see?