It was never supposed to take an hour. Definitely not 90 whole minutes. Not the fleeting, I-can’t-believe-this-much-time-has-gone-by sort either. The kind that drags. Forcing on, despite your heels digging in, pleading, begging for the minutes to stop. To slow down. To just wait because this much of my evening can’t be taken up just…laying here.

This should’ve taken 15 minutes, 20 max.

I want to take an everything-shower.

I want to have a hot cup of tea and finally get into my new book.

I want to eat a meal that wasn’t cobbled together with the remnants of someone else’s scraps.

To sit in the hot tub and let my muscles slack.

To watch a single episode of the show I’ve been waiting for all week.

Dabble with that chapter I’ve been writing, give the dog attention I never seem to have for her, snuggle up with my husband.

But time has no ears for my silent pleas.

It doesn’t hear when they turn into curses that turn into heart hammering, body heating, lip tightening so I don’t let any of it escape and start the whole process over again. 

So I just lie here.

All because my toddler seems to possess genetic material not derived from me, but from some entity opposed to the idea of nightly unconsciousness.

But this isn’t really about my son not sleeping, is it?

It’s about the list.

Over and over again, we’re told children have better imaginations than adults. Because they can turn cardboard boxes into fully functioning kitchens. Taste delicacies off empty plates. See dragons soaring through the air, breathing fire and gobbling—gulp gulp gulp!—prey when we know it’s just a stuffed inanimate object.

But I’ve been an adult for long enough to know that’s a lie.

That it’s the adults who play make-believe the best.

So good that we’ve tricked ourselves into thinking we don’t do it at all.

It’s not make-believe when we swipe right and build an entire future from the profile picture of a bass-wielding dude in a cut off and a baseball cap.

It’s not make-believe to plan a vacation with an itinerary for every day, sun up to sun down, knowing you’ll have unlimited energy and that the sand from the beach won’t permeate any of your undergarments and leave you with a rash in places deemed inappropriate to scratch in public.

It’s not make-believe to lie in bed on the eve of your birthday, giddy about waking up to balloons, gifts, a sweet card, breakfast finished, the house spotless, a doting lover.

Just because we call it something else doesn’t mean it’s not make-believe.

Another eight minutes yanks me on, despite my bleeding heels. I cross another item off the list. My eyes stay squeezed shut. Maybe if I pretend to sleep, he will too.

I expect to have more of my evening. I’ve already spent that time before it arrives.

They aren’t just ideas—options for when the day’s finally mine again. They feel real. The heat of the mug on my air conditioned fingertips. The soft of my favorite couch blanket as I curl up with a book. The laughter in my chest from the funny show I’ve waited a week to watch. All my favorite ways to wind down after a full day.

A kid imagines unidentifiable food on a plate. 

An adult imagines the precise way the steam of a shower will curl into their lungs and expand a chest that’s been constricted from a long day.

Someone claiming to be more cultured, a stoic of the first order, whole in their state of mind, unattached to the outcomes of life, emotionally in control (as their eye twitches at the mere thought of any inconvenience) might tell me to stop.

Get rid of the expectation. Then there will be no disappointment.

Live your life in the now.

Stop focusing on the future.

That’s my problem. If I just ignore every want I have and have total acceptance of what I get, there will be nothing to dampen my palms, to flare my nostrils.

There will be no dissatisfaction if my husband forgets my birthday.

No plans on the vacation to go awry. 

No looking forward.

To anything.

I open my eyes. The sliver of light I’ve named as my mortal enemy for it’s ability to somehow light the whole room is gone. It’s dark. Soft, slow breaths come from the tiny boy curled into my side. I carefully unwrap his chubby arm, with his fat fold tan line, from my ribs, roll off the mattress and onto the floor.

Click the button on my watch.

8:24pm.

I hold the door handle open and slide it shut, slowly releasing it while praying to the noise gods to please, this time, muffle the latch’s click.

The cat meows at my feet, a garbled “you’re late with my wet food!”

In the kitchen, I sigh and hit the kettle. Grab my favorite mug.

Settle onto the couch with a blanket.

I read three chapters.

I watch one episode.

I shower.