I stay glued to the couch, the couch that’s blessedly free from little people overcrowding me, needing me, whining at me

“You coming to sleep?” says my tired husband.

“Yeah, soon. A few more minutes,” I reply half-heartedly.

I can’t come yet. I can’t pull myself away from this long awaited indulgence. I simply refuse to let this beautiful silence be wasted on sleep.

After a long and grueling day (like all the others), I savor the nothingness that has settled upon my living room. I am antsy to begin my non-slumber party — with myself.

How can I waste this gift on sleep I can’t even be awake to enjoy?

No, I can’t part with my silent night. I can’t give up the portion of my day that knows the best me, that knows me the best.

It’s these sacred and very few moments of quality time where I have space.

Think space. Alone space. Calm space. Write space, read space, even rest space.

But not sleep space.