The Importance of Sleep

“Mom, I love the color of your bed.”

“What? Lou, you need to go to bed.”

It was 11:20. PM.

That’s right, PM.

On a Tuesday.

A solid three hours past his bedtime. Nate, Sam, and Tess were all fast asleep in their own beds. Tighe was out of town. This was just me versus Lou. 

I was already tucked into bed, exhausted. 

Lou was not.

He was standing in my doorway, chatting away, half amused at my bedtime routine and half amused at himself for being wide awake when he knew everyone else was in bed.

But I believe that he was genuinely not tired. Which was my own fault, of course. 

Tighe and I have been talking a lot about resentment lately, and I have to admit that mostly, I just resent myself. 

Why did I let him nap for so long this afternoon? Why didn’t I make him go to school this morning? 

Though, looking back, I still think I made the right call there.

He was feverish the day before, and with everything going around—covid, RSV, stomach bug, flu, chlamydia, all of it—I worried he was coming down with something. Tess was sent home with a very legitimate fever the week before and Nate slept through all of Martin Luther King Day. Which was a shame because I had a video on peaceful protests all queued up, ready for some teachable moments with my kids. 

And of course, like any good mom, I was planning to hit on all the good conspiracy theories about who really killed MLK. The CIA? The FBI? There’s no way James Earl Ray was acting alone. 

In retrospect, perhaps Nate was faking that nap? 

No, that was a legit nap. He had spent the night, Sunday night, at a friend’s house and I suspected they didn’t get much sleep. He was dropped off at home around 9:30 that morning, said “good” when I asked him how it was, and immediately dragged his weary body up to the third floor to nap. It was very much Charlie Brown’s depression posture. 

Obviously, I let him do it. A tired Nate is a dangerous Nate. Grumpy and irritable, he lets his mood infect the entire household.

But after an hour, I went up to check on him. I mean, I carried my own tired self all the way up to the third floor—that’s how worried I was. 

I always reach back to feel my hamstrings working and give them a little assist when I get to that second set of steps. Those are steep!

I found him sound asleep. He had turned on his fan, directly on his face, and his noisemaker, full volume, and looked so peaceful under his giant sherpa blanket.

So I went back downstairs. Back to the noisy chaos of Lou, Tess, and Sam. And several of Sam’s friends who are always in and out of our house. They get a tad dramatic with hurt feelings and injuries—there’s always an injury—that cause them to break up and get back together several times during the day.

And Tess was scheduled for a birthday party at 1, so after I fed them lunch and sent her to fetch her coat, I went up to check on Nate again. Still sound asleep, though in a different position. 

“He must be sick,” I thought to myself as I crept around the Lego bins forever on the floor to reach out and feel his forehead. Normal. Though the fan on his face would surely blow away any sign of a fever. 

The afternoon dragged on. Sam retreated to the basement, Lou to the couch for some Paw Patrol, and I checked on Nate at least every thirty minutes. Each time, he was in a slightly different position and fever-free, at least as far as I could tell.

Two of his friends stopped by—one to snag him for a bike ride to CVS and the other, an hour or so later, to snag him for a pickup football game. I shooed them away, telling them he was napping.

“Why?” they asked, incredulous, peering around me to see inside the house, perhaps hoping for a glimpse of him. As though I was lying.

“I don’t know,” I told one of them, “maybe he’s sick?”

Eventually, one of his friend’s moms called me.

“I heard Nate’s sick?”

“He is?” I asked, as though somehow she’d know better than I did. But I guess the rumor had circulated through the 5th grade boys and some of their moms.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” I told her. “He’s been sleeping all day! Maybe they drank last night?”

I was kind of kidding, but it is weird for Nate to nap at all, let alone all day. Usually, even when he’s sick or exhausted from a sleepover, he still prefers to be around people, so he’ll lie on the sofa in the living room and shout judgmental abuse at everyone. 

That’s why I say a tired Nate is a dangerous Nate. He gets self-righteous, vindictive, snippy, scornful. Tess and Sam usually end up in tears over something he says. It’s miserable.

Which is why I didn’t wake him. Plus the Ravens lost the night before, doubling down on his bad mood.

Sleep on, Nate. Sleep off this imperceptible virus and whatever microscopic germs your body is fighting.

Finally, around 3:30, towards the tail end of Lou’s Paw Patrol marathon, I heard slow, heavy thudding down the steps. Quite different from Nate’s usual very urgent crashing down the steps from the third floor. Like he’s missing some really fun event or has his day all mapped out and can’t afford to miss a single second.

I curled around to the bottom of the steps. 

“Nate? Ya dead, man?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, dragging out the only syllable in ‘know’ for what felt like an eternity. He was rubbing his squinty eyes, which were still heavy from sleep. Sliding his hands into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie, he hobbled around the couch and plopped down beside Lou.

“Are you sick?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did you sleep last night?”

“Uh, I don’t recall.”

Hmm, what a politician.

“Maybe I slept for an hour?”

“An hour? A single hour? Yikes.”

“Yeah,” he grunted.

“You hungry?”

“Yeah,” he sighed, pulling himself up from the couch and trudging into the kitchen.

He poured himself a bowl of cereal while I lectured about the virtues of good sleep, maintaining a regular sleep schedule, and how important sleep is to fortifying the immune system. He nodded in agreement while munching on his Special K and then I reminded him about his basketball practice that night.

“I don’t know if I can go,” he mumbled, putting his empty bowl in the sink and dropping two slices of bread in the toaster. 

His appetite was rather astounding. Is this what it’s like to have a teenager? Ew. But an appetite is a good sign.

“Oh, you’re going,” I said. “Unless you have a legitimate fever, you’re going.”

“I just don’t have any energy,” he replied, again slurring the last few syllables of his sentence. 

“Sorry, Nate, natural consequences. You stayed up too late, now you have to pay the price.”

I proceeded to lecture—good thing I have all these lectures stored away in my back pocket—about the benefits of moving your body, sweating out toxins, and sticking to your regular routine, even when you’re hungover.

A sleep hangover, I mean, not a real hangover.

I made him the best hangover dinner I could think of—a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich—and when he got dropped off from basketball practice a few hours later, he was feeling good. Energized, cheery, recharged. He showered and went to bed and he’s been a joyful, productive member of society ever since.

But back to Lou. The current bane of my existence. 

I’m just kidding, he’s still a joy to be around. He’s just exhausting. And, like Roger Murtaugh, I’m getting too old for this shit. 

I chose to keep Lou home from school on Tuesday morning because he slept late, he still seemed feverish and lethargic, and he whined a lot.

“Fine,” I had said to him, “you can stay home, but you have to nap today.”

I was convinced that his body needed it, as Nate’s did. To fight off the imperceptible virus and microscopic germs. And more than that I need regular, frequent breaks from Lou’s non-stop energy and enthusiasm.

So I napped him. Naps are increasingly rare for this three year-old. He doesn’t really need them anymore. He’s a big kid.

“But you need to nap when you’re sick,” I reminded him.

He woke up just before The Others got home from school, still a little groggy, but that’s not unusual. We charged through the rest of our evening: homework, dinner, another basketball practice, showers, books, and bedtime. Pretty standard. 

I watched a show by myself, sipped some tea, locked up the house, and went upstairs around 10. 

PM.

Again, pretty standard. Tighe called, we caught up, I brushed my teeth, and I took a hot shower as I always do right before bedtime.

But as soon as I shut off the water, I heard a rapping. I listened. Sometimes Rocket scratches himself and thumps on the floor. But no, this was lighter. And more insistent.

Definitely a child knocking on my bedroom door. Ugh.

Still sopping wet and wrapped in a towel, I opened it. 

Lou smiled up at me in his Paw Patrol pajamas. 

“Go to bed,” I said sternly.

“What? Why did you shower?”

“I always shower before I go to bed.”

“You do?”

“Yes, go back to bed.”

“But I have to pee.”

“Then pee. The bathroom is right there.”

“But I need the light on.”

“Then turn it on.”

He can definitely reach the light switch. And he often uses the bathroom in the middle of the night without bothering Tighe and I. I would know because the sound of the toilet seat slamming down wakes me up every time.

He finished peeing, flushed the toilet, washed his hands and smiled up at me, like he was expecting me to do something exciting with him.

I realized this would be a battle.

“Hold on, let me dry off and then I’ll put you to bed.”

He followed me into the bathroom where he watched me put on lotions and serums and eye cream and everything else weird that I do before bed. And he talked the whole time. Questions. And stories. So many stories.

“Why do you do that lotion? I need some. I love this toilet. Mom, one time, five years ago, I was sitting on this toilet fighting bad guys. And I killed two of them.”

“Huh.” I was dabbing at the fine lines around my eyes with great care, so I let him go on. And he did. 

“...and when I grow up and be Nate, I will shower, too. And then I will go to basketball practice with my new basketball shoes and I will get married.”

I was starting to wear out, of both wakefulness and patience, so it was time for bed. I took his hand, led him to his room, coerced his head onto his pillow, and tucked in the left side of his comforter, which always comes undone for some reason.

He immediately sat up, slid out of bed, and hopped—literally—over to his train table where he began arranging dinosaurs and cars and an airplane with a missing wing. 

“Nope, it’s bedtime,” I whispered, careful not to wake Tess, his roommate. I forced him back under his covers, whispered that I loved him, and moved to slip out of his room, pulling the door shut behind me.

“I love you, too!” he whispered back, with sincerity and enthusiasm. “And I love Tighe! And Tess! And Nate! And… uh, Sam! And Rocket and Wally. But Wally’s dead. So is Papa. But they’re probably in heaven, playing together. Why did that lady take Wally’s body—”

“Okay, go to sleep.”

I curled up under my covers and closed my eyes, fueled by just the tiniest sliver of hope that he’d stay in bed. He seemed wide awake, though, and deep down, I knew that.

A few moments later, he was in the doorway again. Asking about the impressionist paintings on the wall.

“...prints from my grandmother—I don’t know. Go to bed!” 

“Okay, but can you put this glove on my hand?” He was holding a red and white football receiving glove.

“Why?”

“It was in my book basket,” he said with the sweetest innocence. “Should we put it on my left hand or my right hand?”

“Left,” I said, as he held out his right hand. Obviously.

We wrestled putting the glove on for a moment and then I told him to go back to bed now.

“But where’s Tighe sleeping?”

“He’s in Miami, he’ll be home tomorrow.”

“So, in a hotel? What kind of hotel?”

“I don’t know! Please go back to bed!” I was so tired, on the verge of tears, wondering when I get to travel to Miami by myself. 

“Okay!” He was just so agreeable.

“But should I shut the door?”

“You can leave it open,” I instructed him. I usually leave it ajar when Tighe’s away.

“Okay! But do you want it open a little bit? Or a lot?” he asked, walking the door all the way back to the wall, in its wide open positon. 

“I don’t care, I’m so tired, just go to bed.”

“Okay!” He stood in the doorway, huge smile on his face, and pushed the door open with great force, enough so that it slammed against the wall behind it. Which irritated me.

“GO. TO. BED!”

“Okay!”

He sprinted back across the hall while I switched off my bedside lamp and wondered whether I had to go in there to regulate or he’d just get in bed and go to sleep on his own.

It was quiet, so I assumed the latter. 

Until I heard sirens. 

I held my breath to listen for the source. We live in a city, it’s not uncommon to hear sirens late at night. But no, these sirens were coming from Lou’s room.

Dammit. One of those stupid children’s books where you press a button and it makes noise. He has two truck books, one farm animal book, and one dinosaur book in that format. I resented myself for buying them for him, though they seemed like great educational opportunities at the time. Sure enough, in a few short minutes, I heard dinosaurs roaring faintly from down the hall. 

But aside from the distant din of dinosaur roars, he wasn’t actually bothering me. And the other kids are pretty heavy sleepers, so I let him do his thing and I drifted off to sleep.

Around 4AM, I stirred to use the bathroom and pondered for a brief moment whether I should go in there and see how he ended up. Under his covers? On the plush, white rug? Or maybe he was still awake, churning through books and teaching himself a trade.

Nah. I decided against it and got back in bed, grateful for a few more hours of sleep before we all had to get ready for school.

When I dropped off Lou the next morning, I warned his teacher that he was up late last night so he’ll probably be ready for an early nap. 

But at home, I had decided, I’ll never let him nap again. Until he’s a teenager. Like Nate.