I have grown so accustomed to waking up in the middle of the night that it is now part of my routine. The minute you become a parent, everyone starts asking if your child is sleeping through the night. By the time that this blessed miracle actually occurs, it’s too late. The uninterrupted 8-10 hour sleep cycle of your youth is ruined, a distant memory. I’d like to believe that it will return again someday, but my husband snores and my dog jingles his tags. I used to be able to tune these noises out, but now I seem to have developed super sleep hearing powers.

So here I sit at 2:30am on Thanksgiving morning, awake without reason, waiting for my body to tell me that it’s ready for its second nap. It’s not all bad, these unnecessary wake up calls have their perks. The house is peaceful, dark and quiet (at least it is upstairs, away from the snores). Sam stuffs himself under my feet or rests his head in my lap, grateful for an opportunity to once again have my full attention, the original two. I get the bills paid, emails caught up, and window shop the giant mall that is the internet. I eat a snack without having to share any bites. If I have to be awake, might as well make it count.