The Last Thing I Need Is Tryptophan

Precocious Daughter is on Thanksgiving break. That means she gets to stay up pretty much as late as she wants.

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She's a bit of a night owl.

I haven't been on Thanksgiving break. I've been going to work this week (although - woohoo! - four-day weekend coming up). That means I need to sleep at night, preferably for seven or eight hours.

Our schedules have been amazingly incompatible.

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My schedule is in the red trunks.

The last several nights have gone something like this:

At some point in the evening, PDaughter gets on Facetime with her boyfriend.

I go to bed at a reasonable hour.

I then toss and turn for several hours, half-dozing, half hearing muffled teenage giggles mixed with "Friends" episodes on Nick at Nite.

Eventually I get up and trudge bleary-eyed to PDaughter's room and say, "It's whatever o'clock. Wrap up your conversation and go to bed."

I toss and turn for a while longer until I finally fall asleep, at which point I have weird-ass dreams until my alarm goes off.

Every night, whatever o'clock has gotten a little later, my dreams have gotten much weirder, and I've awoken progressively tired.

Right now I should be getting stuff ready in advance for tomorrow's Thanksgiving dinner. But I'm freaking exhausted. And I have to get up early to stick old Tom Turkey's butt in the oven for the big roast.

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I find this turkey oddly sensual.
Because of exhaustion. Yes, that's it.

But screw it. I need sleep. Perhaps the Thanksgiving elves will whip up some dishes overnight. Or maybe I'll get up in the morning remarkably refreshed and put together a masterpiece with renewed vigor and surprisingly little effort.

Dear Lord, I'm delirious.

Anyway, I'm going to bed very, very soon. If I hear PDaughter giggling at 2:00 a.m., I don't think it will be Cool Mom who gets out of bed to shush her. I think Crazy Mom will be up at bat.

Or maybe I should try some soundproofing.

Perfect.