In all, I think I have slept over 20 hours this weekend. Beginning on Friday night, when I fell asleep on the couch at 9:00 until just now, when I begrudgingly awoke from a two-hour nap, this weekend gave me the sleep I've been needing to recharge and better prepare myself to handle Grr's mishaps, such as the devil-may-care look on his face as he peed right by his crate Saturday morning, and the absolute refusal to poop today even though he hadn't done so for over 12 hours.
Each bout of sleep, though, ended with an awakening that felt no less difficult than any of the truncated nights of sleep I've gotten during the week. Yesterday morning, I found myself sleeping perpendicular to the bed with a crick in my neck after Sam got up, and woke with a wicked headache.
This afternoon, I had to drag my eyelids open. It felt like I was paralyzed on the couch. I could hear everything that was going on around me, from the commotion of Terminator 2 on TV to Grr's new favorite toy, a squeaky rubber chicken, but I couldn't react to anything. Every position I got in felt like the most comfortable position I could possibly find, and every minute sleeping felt like seconds. I started dozing off around 2:45 this afternoon, and before I knew it, it was after 4:30, and Sam had already taken Grr out to the garage once, repotted a plant, and made himself a cocktail.
I'm sure he felt really good about himself, having accomplished so much while I did nothing more than flip over and curl up in a fetal position. Still, I can't describe the amount of good it did me.
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