Sleep

You would think after I finally stopped nursing and the kids finally started sleeping through the night, I would sleep as well.
You'd be logical in thinking that.
Completely and utterly wrong, but logical.
I don't sleep.
No, I do sleep, just not long periods of time or enough to recharge my lagging batteries.
I wake up worrying, stressing, and organizing my life. I am up early most mornings running errands, going to the grocery store, or working on this blog.
I don't know how to wind down.
I used to meditate.
Now I try, and then dodge flying heathens and have my happy nirvana interrupted by the war cries of my kids.
I used to take Harvey Wallbanger (the dog, not the drink) and go for long walks. With The Man's new schedule, when I get home, I'm on parent duty
until I collapse.
I used to read, but now I fight for my book, have to read around kids in my lap, and maybe get two sentences digested before someone is screaming bloody murder about a taken toy or a cross look.
I miss the rest and the quiet and the peace I used to take for granted.
Now I'm chasing kids, cleaning, feeding, wiping arses and noses and hands and faces and anything else in my path. I'm refereeing and throwing penalty flags and running up and down the house chasing a deranged toddler on a sugar high.
I'm busy. And sleep is a luxury I cannot find time for.
So I eye my bed longingly, and then get up and chase Punk for the millionth time, ordering Boo to turn his underwear around for the eighth time that night, and telling Bug to stop stealing toys and act like a good big brother.
I'm in one of Dante's levels of hell. The one where they practice sleep deprivation. Or I'm a POW.
All I know is I want my pillow, a blankie, and my ratty silky bear and a couple of hours of quiet.
Is that so much to ask?