1966

I Knew Nothing of War

I cannot sleep. In my little bed, I can hear the television in the living room. I know my parents are there, my father in his recliner and my mother in her blue upholstered rocking chair. He will be reading a newspaper and she a novel. Occasionally they will glance up from their reading and attend to whatever is on the TV, probably the news, or a movie.

I slide off the bed, and slip a little as my bare feet hit the floor. I drag my blanket out into the hallway and peep around the corner till my mother spies me. “I can’t sleep,” I whimper.

She smiles and opens her arms to receive me up into her lap. Her body is warm and soft, and she smells of Jergens hand lotion. The rocking chair goes ka-dunk, ka-dunk, ka-dunk as Mom holds me close. I feel her lips brush my forehead as I drift off to sleep.

She used to be the person who got me a drink of water or changed my diaper or dried my tears. She used to be the person who made me a BLT, bought me ice cream, drove me to parties and practices, did my laundry, paid the bills, played card games with me. She took me shopping, taught me to sew, to make my bed, to bake cookies and do small repairs around the house. Before computers, she typed letters. Before GPS, she mapped out a route. Mom read books, did puzzles, bowled, played Mah Jongg, did all the yard work, balanced the checkbook, helped count the offering money after church on Sunday. We shared inside jokes.

She even took me fishing, and cleaned and cooked the fish.

I have been angry with Mom since 4:00am. It is now 10:30am, and I am lying on my bed and praying. I am telling God how mad I am, and I know I have no right to hold anything against Mom. I am not holding it against her. But, who can I hold it against? Who has wronged me?

For six months now I have slept on a mattress on the floor of her room. It is comfortable, and in spite of our fears that she would need help in the middle of the night, only rarely has she even stirred before 7:00am. So I have enjoyed many a full night’s sleep since January. I have nothing to complain of.

This morning, however, she stirred at 4:00am and just kept stirring. She rattled the bed rails, grabbed at the bedside table, talked nonsense, and reached out her arm to grasp an imagined item. I would wake, then fall asleep, then wake again when she made more noise. I tried adjusting her bedclothes, giving her water, answering her questions, and finally just got up, opened the curtains and called it a morning.

I am not the first person to have been robbed of sleep. In fact, I have dealt with the nighttime activities of four children in turn, and had a husband with irregular sleeping habits and a snoring problem. This is not new to me or anyone else. It’s not a big deal. Why does it bother me so much?

It seems so pointless. I have no sense this morning of having done her any good by being awake at 4:00am. Did my attempts to make her feel comfortable, loved and safe make any difference? And if they made a difference this morning, do they make a difference now? She has forgotten the whole thing.

But I remember when I was four, cuddled up in her arms in the blue rocking chair.