When I was a child, I was sort of infamous in the family for my sleeping habits. Or perhaps more accurately, my not-sleeping habits. Heh. Yeah. So all the whining about Sophia's sleep? That's nothing more than God's loving gift to my parents. And brother, whom I apparently harassed mercilessly at 2 AM to get up and play with me.
Y'all, once, when I was about two? We were living in some dorms, Mom and Dad in one room, Josh and I in the adjoining room. They'd put us to bed then go to their room to study for the rest of their lives. And they kept running into people who lived in that dorm who said, "OH, Kira is so sweet in the evenings when she comes down and plays with us in the lobby!" And they thought, no, you're mistaken, Kira is sleeping at that time. But, as it turns out, I was NOT sleeping. I was escaping from my crib, opening the door onto the hallway, and toddling out into whatever adventures I could find. For reals, guys, I owe my parents some sort of REALLY NICE retirement home some day.
Mom had to sit in the hallway outside my door and hold the handle to prevent me from escaping. She says I would stand there for an hour, quietly trying and trying and trying to turn the knob. Then I fell asleep on the floor right inside the door. A REALLY NICE retirement home.
Another typical story of my sleep adventures is about how I used to get up seventeen trillion times every night after being put to bed. My memory is that I was sent to bed somewhere around 3 in the afternoon - some RIDICULOUSLY early hour. This may not be entirely accurate. Anyhow, when I was school aged, I would get up to request drinks, bathroom visits, extra hugs, can we chat about the state of the economy, you know. Whatever would save me from my room.
One night Mom was sitting, chatting with a friend, and I came out, both forefingers hovering in front of my eyes.
"Mom?" I said soberly, "Mom, my eyelashes are uneven."
And then Mom fell off her chair, laughing, and sent me back to my room. Her friend shook her head and muttered, "I don't know why you don't just beat her." This had not been my first escape from my room that night. Heh.
But there is a STORY behind the uneven eyelashes and this is it: I had been taking a pottery class at the local Y. When we finished forming our works-of-genius amorphous bowls, they were put in the kiln. The teacher told us all, several times, very sincerely, NOT TO LOOK IN THE PEEP HOLE while the kiln was firing. WE COULD GO BLIND.
So I, with the peculiar wisdom of childhood, thought that direct orders were for chumps and there must be something GREAT to see in that peep hole. I snuck over to look in it the first chance I got.
What there was in the peep hole was a tiny portion of all the heat and light in the actual kiln, and I promptly burnt off all the eyelashes on one eye and singed the lid. I yanked my head back, looked around to be sure no one had noticed, and then went on with my day as casually as possible.
But that night, as I poked experimentally at my tender eyelid and felt the stubble of what remained of my lashes, I started to wonder if I might not actually go blind. I could be blind BY MORNING. As a matter of fact, didn't the light seem extra dim all of a sudden? THAT is why I had to go show my mom RIGHT NOW, and the fact that it got me out of my bed? Again? After being severely warned NOT TO? Well. It couldn't be helped.
The reason I am telling you this is because my precious snowflake, my little princess, my non-sleeping miracle from heaven, just called out from her bed (where she is still not yet sleeping), "DAD! DAD! COME HERE! I JUST POKED MY EYE!"
And lo. The circle was complete.