The other day I heard a funny song lyric and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head. Sing to the tune of “That’s Amore,” it goes “When the moon, hits your eye, like it’s 4:45, that’s November.”

It has been rattling around in my brain ever since. At first, I found it funny, but now it’s just sad, mainly because it’s so true. I swear the other night it was dark as midnight at 4 p.m. I was ready for bed at 6:30. Naturally, I made myself stay up until a reasonable bedtime, but the urge to crawl into bed was real.

I’ve been feeling sleep-deprived ever since we set the clocks back a couple of weeks ago. Of course, having the full moon shining straight in my window for the past few nights isn’t helping matters. So I’ve resorted to shielding my eyes with a sleep mask. I look like a real diva in my furry pink eyewear, and I’m not sure it helps, but at this point I’ll try anything.

My ability to fall asleep used to be legendary. For years I would joke that it was my superpower. I’d boast about it to anyone who would listen. Family and friends would tease, “How can anyone fall asleep so fast? Don’t you have thoughts?” I’d shrug and give the short answer: “Apparently not.”

For decades, I slept like a baby. As soon as I got into bed and turned out the light, I was, well, out like a light. Overnight I barely moved a muscle, and woke in the morning rested and ready to go. I had true pity for the insomniacs I knew who tried room-darkening shades, melatonin, Tylenol PM and anything else they thought might give them an edge on getting to dreamland.

Ironically, I was sleeping better when my daughter was a baby compared to now. Even when Elizabeth was an infant, turning our world — and sleep cycle — completely upside down, I persevered. But, lately, all that has changed. Bedtime is becoming my kryptonite. Instead of looking forward to it, I’m starting to dread it.

I’m convinced I’m tired until I hit the sheets. That’s when my mind goes to work. It is not unusual for me to turn the light on three different times to jot notes down on a Post-It pad on the nightstand. There are items to add to the grocery list, appointments to confirm and email responses to write. But, mostly, I scrawl down reminders — things to pack, messages to relay and errands to run.

If I finally do manage to doze off, it isn’t long before I’m wide awake again. Why am I awake? In the past there would have been a reason. Now, I’m just awake. So I run through a mental checklist: did I put the laundry in the dryer, run the dishwasher and lock the back door? What is on the agenda for the day ahead? Am I forgetting anything?

Needless to say, I am missing the carefree days of my youth. In those days, I could close my eyes anytime, anywhere and catch 40 winks. It was heaven. Well, except the time I fell asleep at the wheel and hit a snowbank. But you get my drift.

Even when my daughter was a baby, I could get up to tend to her in the night and then go right back to sleep in a flash. It was a lifesaver.

During those long, lovely days when I was home with my toddler, I’d often say after lunch, “Let’s go take a little snooze in Mommy’s bed, want to?” She would go, only because she had to, and in just a few moments, I’d be sound asleep. She would poke and prod me and tug my hair until eventually she was convinced I was truly asleep. Then she would fall asleep too.

Two or three delicious hours later, we would wake up to the sound of my husband coming through the front door from work.

“I didn’t sleep very well,” she would say, rubbing her eyes. It made me laugh every time.

Once she outgrew her crib, she would leave her bed each night and join us in ours. She thrashed around and sometimes ended up sleeping horizontally between my husband and me. We joked that we looked like the letter “H” in the bed. Her feet would be braced against Tim’s ribcage and her head would be nestled into my abdomen. During these years we got kicked, whacked, elbowed, and head-butted more times than I can count. Still, I snoozed on.

Sometimes she slept on top of the blankets, pinning us down right where we slept. Didn’t bother me a bit. Once her leg somehow got inside my pajama bottoms and she was flailing around wildly. I woke up, removed her from my PJs, and conked out again.

For a time, Elizabeth would sleepwalk into our room. She would come in, say something strange, then turn on her heel and go back to bed. Other nights we could hear her in her room, talking in her sleep. She would ramble about friends, lost toys and other late-night concerns.

Several times we woke to find her standing at the foot of our bed looking like a little white ghost in her nightdress. I’m not going to lie, she scared the crap out of us the first few times it happened.

How in the world did I manage to sleep through those years, yet now I can’t get a solid night’s rest? I do know that as people age, they no longer need as much sleep. Could it be that I’m already starting to get by on a measly five or six hours per night?

I’m hopeful that once I adapt to the time change, I’ll be back to my old self, snoozing the night away like Rip Van Winkle.

I mentioned this to my husband. He chuckled, and reminded me that our teen starts driver’s ed next week. Heaven help us, I may never sleep again.

And the beat goes on.

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