Four A.M.

At four a.m. I can convince myself that there are figures moving in the strip of woods behind my house. Or that a porch light on the other side of the woods is a moving flashlight. Or that I'll sleep better on the couch.

I hate four a.m.

Rather, I hate being up at four a.m.

I've never even lived in a city where the bars are open past 3 a.m., so I don't even have fond memories of dancing on a table at 4 a.m.

I'm sure the kids used to wake me up at 4 a.m., but all I remember about those new baby days is dozing while the kid nursed. As soon as the boys got on their schedules (Ironflower angelically started sleeping through the night at 3 months, which I totally thought was due to our parenting skills, until I had the boys and realized it was the luck of the draw), I never had to be up at four a.m.

Not that I HAVE to be up at four a.m. now, of course. It's when my cough medicine wears off, no matter when I take it. Sitting up pretty much eradicates the cough, so guess what I've been doing at four a.m.? Sitting up and waiting for the second round to kick in, approximately 45 minutes later.

Absolutely nothing happens in my neighborhood at four a.m. Which is why I've started to imagine things, obviously. Or possibly I'm hallucinating from lack of sleep.

The 'hood. Not at four a.m. 

I should probably just give up on sleep and get on the computer, though I'm a little nervous about the kind of trouble I could get into on Twitter at four a.m.

I wish I could get work done, but if this post tells you anything, it's that my brain doesn't work very well without sleep.