There are a lot of things you give up when you have children. You simply have to learn to let some things go. Like a good night’s sleep, disposable income and liquid assets.

You also have to accept the muddy floors, juice stained school uniforms and beds that don’t make themselves.

You have to understand that the bathmat will get soaked, that little children like to smudge up the television, the computer monitor and the car windows, and even though a backpack has come home without the slightest remnant of a snack for over a month, it doesn’t mean you won’t look in there one day and suddenly find a small container full of moldy strawberries. Hypothetically.

However, since I started my new job I’ve found it really hard to let those things go ignored because I just don’t have the time to deal with them. It’s one thing to see a load of laundry sitting on the floor in the basement and think, “I’ll get to that later” and it’s something else entirely to actually get it done.

It didn’t used to bother me if I saw a pair of socks on the living room floor or dishes in the sink, because I knew I would have time to take care of it. Now, I simply don’t get that chance. It’s frustrating and I have been letting it drive me crazy.

Yesterday, in the midst of cleaning the house, my daughter asked me to stop and listen to her play a song on her electric piano. As I sat on the edge of her bed and listened to her play Pachelbel Canon, I realized that I really need to stop worrying about whether the floors need swept or if the blinds are dirty.

Because as she played that beautiful music all I could think about was how dusty her keyboard was.

I have been known to do unusual things after taking Ambien. What is remarkable about these things is that I often have no recollection of them. Luckily I don’t eat, drive or call people. Shout out to my big sister! Put down the phone Trish!

Mostly, I just write. As it turns out, I did some of that last night. I vaguely remember penning notes to my two children and to my husband before I went to bed. I know they were love notes, left for them to read when they woke up. If you had asked me what those notes said this morning, however, I would have been clueless.

So sometimes there are brief remembrances about the previous evening, but not always. I logged on to Twitter today, and had absolutely no memory of leaving this update last night:

A hallucinating, crazy woman in the bed and a woman with legs made of turkey behind the door.

My husband is one lucky guy.

I do not sleep. Chronic insomnia has plagued me since I was pregnant with my daughter some 11 years ago.

I have tried everything short of an acupuncturist and I even have one of those lined up. St. John’s Wort, Melatonin, anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds have been ingested, relaxation techniques have been used and I have one of the most comfortable beds and pillows I have ever rested upon.

For the most part my problem exists because I worry a lot. Sometimes it’s not even the worrying, but rather the constant chatter in my brain. Keeping my cell phone next to my bed helps a little because I can jot notes into it in the middle of the night (using paper and pencil was pretty tough in the dark), but even that doesn’t keep the stress of everyday life at bay.

This weekend, we took a trip to my in-laws’ house. They live in a small, southern Ohio town in a big, old house with gorgeous woodwork and a great front porch. One of those roomy porches, with a swing and everything. Sigh.

They live across the street from an enormous park where my husband and I walked the dogs and let the kids play until they were so filthy I barely recognized them. We drank some beer, ate homemade food, played cards with the kids and watched football.

At one point on Saturday, my body sunk into their comfortable couch and before I knew it, I woke myself up with my own snoring. Classy, right? Whatever. I don’t even care. My in-laws had 11 kids, so they’ve learned to tune things out. I allowed myself to doze off and on the entire afternoon.

That night, as I was checking e-mail, I fell asleep at the computer desk. I stayed that way, slumped over with my head on my arm, until my husband came to check on me for fear I had died. That’s how much I don’t sleep. My spouse saw me with my eyes closed and thought I had passed away.

And, yesterday after church I told everyone I was going to lie down. I climbed the steps and tucked myself into bed…and I went to sleep. I napped, people! That simply doesn’t happen.

At my in-laws’ there is no agenda, no laundry, no meetings and no work. My kids can play freely without me looking at my watch so we can hurry off to the next thing on our schedule.

I have always said I would dislike living outside the city, because I would be too bored. There just wouldn’t be enough to do.

Apparently I’ve been wrong all this time, because not having enough to do was exactly what I needed.

I had my first migraine when I was eight years old. I remember being in the school nurse’s bathroom, alone, scared, vomiting up my cafeteria lunch with my head hurting so bad that I wanted to crack it open on the corner of the sink and let the pain spill all over the linoleum floor. Ah, good times, good times.

I have tried a lot of different medications in the last thirty years, but none of them really work. Five weeks ago, I decided to take things into my own hands and see if giving up sugar would help.

It’s not no-sugar, but it’s so-low-it-may-as-well-be-no-sugar. And, you know what? It did help. In a four week span, I had one headache. ONE. That’s unheard of.

But, in the past week (and I’m totally blaming this on my trip to Chicago) I have let myself enjoy bread, and wine…and chocolate again. Which is probably why I’m typing this at 5:00am and have been up all night with a headache.

Yep. It’s time for me to get back on the wagon.

At the very least, my teeth are very happy about this situation. The Honey Nut Cheerios, however, are ticked.