Let's go.

Mild insomnia.

Spurts of wakefulness, not necessarily anxiety-filled, either. Just patches of a-few-minutes-too-long wakefulness in the midst of otherwise comfortable sleep.

That's what I sometimes have.

I had it last night.

Which would have been fine if it hadn't been accompanied by a bold headache. Can't read with a headache, you see.

Pah.

We're "off" this week, in as much as a family that lives in home of book-lined walls can be said to be "off," that is. This "being off" coupled with the gray, wet days that are closing 2005 has (re)introduced us to the luxury of sleeping in, a luxury for which I was more than grateful this morning, given the headache and lost sleep.

Then I remembered.

Master M-mv, assistant coach and dedicated swimmer, is not quite as "off" as the Misses and I: He is due at the pool at 9:30 a.m.

Pah.

And pah again.

I could hear the man-boy moving about. Sooosh. Fiber cereal in his favorite green bowl. Chik, chik, chik. Banana slices. Swup. Fridge closing as he puts the milk and orange juice away. Slosh. Dishes soaking in the sink. Pad, pad, padding down the hall. Teeth brushed. Pad, pad, padding back to the kitchen.

I lost track of him for a minute. Then a gentle rap, rap, rap.

The man-boy bearing a huge mug of coffee.

"Good morning, Mom. I — "

"I know, cutie. Swim practice. I know. Thank you."

The next half hour passes in a flurry of bed-making and kitchen-tidying and home-making activities that anal-retentives like me must complete before leaving the house. It's just the way it is for some of us.

And while I do what I do, my headache sways and yawns and gapes and considers receding.

And while I do what I do, Master tops off my coffee at well-timed intervals.

And while I do what I do, the Misses M-mv bundle into their coats and hats and mittens and consider breakfast at Mickey D's.

And we arrive at the moment of departure.

Teeth brushed. Hair combed. House in order.

Another triumph over the daily. I am amazing. I am wonderful. I am...

I am still in my Nick and Nora pajamas, the ones with the grinning sock monkeys.

Standing at the door, with fifteen minutes to spare, I realize I have picked up the extra time not through masterful streamlining but through a failure to look at myself in the mirror. Well, I had looked. At my hair. At my face. At my teeth. The rest of me had failed to register.

This, I realize, in a moment of inward punditry, is what desperate housewives must really look like. They do not resemble Marcia Cross or Eva Longoria so much as they resemble me at this moment: flannel pajamas, simple haircut, capacious bottom, Sponge Bob booties, and all.

This self-talk and accompanying laughter, is, of course, what nearly always prevents me from tripping into the chasm — this ability to step outside myself and write me, so to speak; to observe and to comment and, finally, to laugh, sometimes with me, sometimes at me. "Here," I say to myself, chuckling. (Madly? Benignly? Does it matter? Just laugh.) "Take my hand, you fool. We're about to get through another day. Let's go."

Let's go.

Not one to waste time on the obvious, I don my coat with a purposefulness that dares anyone to say, "But, Mom. You're still...."

And we're off.

And as we stride to the van, I in my monkey pajamas and red plaid jacket and Grandma Dowdel boots and red ear muffs, Miss M-mv(i) takes my free hand and says:

"Mom. You look adorable."

Buy that girl some hotcakes and chocolate milk.

And laugh.