Manic me = clean(er) house

There was a time, before antidepressants, when I would clean maniacally through the night on occasion. The reasons for this usually had little to do with the actual state of the house. I'd have something on my mind, or something bouncing around the depths of my subconscious, and that troublesome something would serve as rocket fuel, pushing me through the stratosphere of sleeplessness. The way I just wrote this might imply a certain degree of self-awareness, of learning, of using the time to sort my world in a way not unlike dreams allow. I was probably just nuttier than I am now.

Now, I go to bed more like a normal person (or what I imagine a normal person to be). So it was kind of a blast from the past tonight when I attacked the kitchen and started sweeping beans off the floor (don't ask). But it was a more pure experience, more healthy, I suppose. It's only 12:30 a.m., and a true manic episode would take me through until at least 2. I cleaned because if I didn't, we'd be unable to make chocolate milk. We might also be unable to cook, but let's be real here: We can get by without access to the stove (it's harder without access to the microwave), but we're not getting far without "chocka milk."

Speaking of the boys, they are asleep. We spent just a few minutes with them at getting-into-bed time (actually, I spent a few seconds ... Cheryl spent probably a half hour, but that's still a vast improvement in a process that has taken hours in the past). We have achieved this nirvana via the powers of the new Thomas the Tank Engine toddler bedrolls, which are on top of their actual beds. I am Thomas' bitch. He has powers beyond reason in our household.