Royal Majesty

I know there are a lot of you out there who, like me, suffer from insomnia. I've tried everything over the years, from Melatonin to Valerian, to Tylenol PM to Valium to the newest thing, Rozarem.

Nothing works as well or as consistently as I'd like it to. I consider them band-aid measures at best.

So I make do. But never, ever do I awake feeling "refreshed". I'm not sure I've ever felt as if I've slept enough. The term "morning person" does not apply to me in any way, shape or form.

My guilty little secret is that sometimes after I've gotten the kids off to school, I go back to bed for a few hours. This is very counterproductive of course, because it only exacerbates my sleep problems later that night. I try not to do it, but sometimes the siren song of my bed is too much to resist.

Unfortunately, Diminutive One has inherited this proclivity. His sleep issues began at birth and have not improved much since then. When he was 7, he was diagnosed with OSA (obstructive sleep apnea) because of drastically enlarged tonsils. They touched, in fact, sometimes entirely sealing off his airway. The ENT took one look in his mouth and said, "Well no wonder he doesn't sleep. We'll take them out a week from Friday." There was no mention of a sleep study; there just wasn't a need.

In the interim, I (foolishly) pinned all my hopes on that simple procedure. I really wanted it to be the magic bullet for him.

It did help. He stopped thrashing around like a fish out of water while he slept and he did seem more rested. But it didn't really do anything to address the issue of getting to sleep.

He, like me, just has trouble shutting off. His brain is like a runaway train, steaming ahead full speed, fueled by his rampant imagination and burning curiosity about everything.

His medication, if not taken at the proper time, can exacerbate matters. It is a stimulant, so if taken too late in the day, it doesn't wear off by bedtime. Because the kids are on school holiday and we all slept late, that's exactly what happened yesterday, despite the fact that he was up far past his usual bedtime.

We tried reading. We tried nature sounds on the iPod. We tried making up stories together. Nothing worked. He was wide awake, and becoming increasingly frustrated.

And then I had an epiphany.

Bob Ross.

Diminutive One LOVES watching Bob Ross. Folks used to make fun of Bob Ross because of his 'fro and his groovy threads, but the man is undeniably talented. And he is absolutely mesmerizing. His voice is incredibly soothing and soporific.

We went to YouTube and selected a clip we had not seen before; "Royal Majesty".



As we watched, the conversation went like this:

DO: Why (YAWN) does he always say "beat the devil out of it"?

BA: (YAWN) It's just his thing. He thinks it's funny.

DO: Oh. Is it?

BA: Ummm, I think it's more amusing than funny.

DO: Oh. (YAWN)

BA: (YAWN)

On the screen, Bob is crooning, "No pressure, no pressure. With this painting, you can literally move mountains."

He instructs us in how to make happy little trees. He instructs us to decide where they will live in this painting. He instucts us in how to mix the colors, swirling and swirling in a hypnotizing motion, until the color is remarkably rich and suitably verdant. He swipes his brush deftly across the creamy puddle and creates majestic pine trees with effortless little stabs of his brush upon the canvas.

DO: Why (YAWN) do they call it (YAWN) "pthalo blue"?

BA: (YAWN) I don't know. We could (YAWN) google it.

DO: Okay. Maybe (YAWN) tomorrow.

BA: I think he's almost (YAWN) done with this one.

DO: (YAWN) Yeah. I wish I could do that.

BA: You (YAWN) can. Bob Ross believes that everybody has creative ability. They just need (YAAAAAAAAAWN) somebody to teach them how to use it.

DO: Do you think (YAWN) I do?

BA: (YAWN) Absolutely!

We watch Bob finish the rest of his painting in companionable silence. When he is done, he says kindly, "Let me hear from you if you decide to try this one. In the meantime, happy painting, and God bless my friend." He waggles his fingers in a gesture that should seem effeminate, but is not. It's just Bob.

Diminutive One is asleep, lulled into sweet unconsciousness by Bob's soft tenor and the sound of brushstrokes swishing to and fro.

I am grateful to the gentle man. He teaches more than painting, I think. He teaches us to take the time to nurture the soul, to feed it with the joy of doing something we love.

Sometimes, I feel quilty about taking time to write, especially when there are things lying undone. There are a lot of things I would like to do that are "frivolous"; I would like to learn to play the piano. I would like relearn all the French I've forgotten in the 14 years since our honeymoon in Paris. I would like to learn to throw clay.

But I don't, because I have obligations. Responsibilities.

Bob makes me think about that. A lot.

I herded Diminutive One to his own bed, shuffling and swaying. When I returned to my own bed, I slipped easily into oblivion myself.

I dreamt of pthalo blue skies.