Shooing my husband and child to bed is quite a task. Finally, when the upstairs floor boards groan and pop as they stumble over them and into bed, it's my time. Quiet time.
Our dog sits with me, one ear cocked in case I get up, dozing on the floor as I relish my Friday night quiet time. My head echoes with the voices and school bells of the day and I begin to wind down. I begin to let go of the stresses of the week, while ghosts of students, past and present, clank around in my mind.
Friday night, for me, is a thinking night. Now I know that sounds a bit stupid, but I need the quiet time to think about everything and nothing. I think of school, my mom, this week's karate lesson, kids I'm worried about, politics, my dad...thought whirl and bump and scream throughout my brain. The night quiet allows them to wear themselves out so I can sleep peacefully. I replay a week's worth of conversations in my head, allowing them a chance to be heard one last time before drifting away into their storage spot.
I love Friday nights because I get to catch up with myself, check in, and see how I'm doing. As the minutes pass, our dog sighs, groans, and finds new positions, telling me that, really, she's ready for bed. While I appreciate her input, I know that my mind isn't ready for bed. Years ago, as a young teacher, I would fall asleep on the futon on Friday nights, exhausted by my new teacher enthusiasm. Rarely do I fall asleep on the couch now, but when I do, it does feel a bit like a luxury.
My husband doesn't understand my need to stay up late on Friday night, even though I've explained it several times. There's something about a nearly quiet house, creaks and cracks and pops included, that restores me. I have unwound. And now it's time for bed.
