I used to be a sleep hog. Less than eight hours? Forget it. I was a bleary eyed, half crazed, irrational mad woman until I made it home after work and commenced with a major snore fest. I would whisk through the door, throw my purse on the table and let out a huge sigh.
"I only got seven hours sleep last night. I'm putting on pajamas, watching Dancing With the Stars and going to bed. See you tomorrow."
Ah. Those were such innocent days.
This morning I awoke with a gasp. It was the second night in a row Jane hadn't awoken in five hours. I jumped up and put my hand under her nose, making sure she was still breathing.
I thought surely something was terribly wrong.
But nope. She was just fine. Five hours, a blessing from God. Granted she shrieked like a tiny adorable banshee from 9 pm to 1 am... but still. You take what you can get. Beggars can't be choosy.
And even now, as I listen to the dulcet tones of her tiny baby cries (which are not tiny at all, they carry all the vibrato of a mack truck), I carry the hope of sleep deep within my heart. The hope that one day I can once again complain about a mere seven hours of consecutive sleep. You know. In like eighteen years.