NO REST FOR THE WICKED
“You were always such a sleepy baby,” my mother reminisced. “We had to wake you up to feed you.” I love the picture of me this conjures: a tiny, blissed-out Buddha swaying on her nappy-clad butt, too content to open her eyes.
Where is that soporific tot of yore now, as floppy as narcoleptic pasta? These days I’m the Woman Who Cannot Sleep. The woman who lies rigid, clock-watching, or
