Slacktide: To sleep, perchance to dream ... about more sleeping

Man, I feel like I haven’t slept in months. Know why? Because I haven’t.

Partly, I blame high-definition streaming television, with its ample selection of softcore pornography masquerading as historical drama, sci-fi fantasy and/or women’s prison comedy.

I also fault the seasonal ubiquity of ice cream in our freezer; I just can’t help but lie on the couch for hours, basking in the frosty afterglow. Or, fighting indigestion.

But mostly, it’s my kids who rob me of sleep (and with it my youthful vigor, although TV and ice cream bear some responsibility, too). This time of year, every year, not only do they resist going to bed — they don’t stay in bed, either.

Our 8-year-old daughter’s room faces the rising sun, point blank. Of course, I put up a blackout curtain — by which I mean aluminum foil and duct tape — but still, by four in the morning it’s like a tanning salon in there. And she’s up and ready to start cooking breakfast … using knives. And the stove.

Then there’s our 5-year-old son, who, despite scoring the darkest, coolest room in the whole house, inherited my wife’s propensity for extremely light sleeping (whereas I can sleep, and have slept, through gunfire; we used to live in Brooklyn and the Matanuska-Susitna Valley). Point is, any given night, all summer long there’s invariably some yahoo in our neighborhood shooting off fireworks. Between that and Harry Potter-based nightmares, the boy spends more time in my bed than I do.

Anyway, I’m tired. How tired am I?

I’m so tired I’ll fall asleep any time I sit quietly for more than a few minuzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Sorry. Must’ve dozed off for a second. I’ll just put on some Slayer, here. … Oh, yeah, much better.

Now, where was I?

Ah, yes. I’m so tired the bags under my eyes have bags under their eyes. But the bags under those bags sprung for Botox, so they’re looking pretty tight, actually.

So what if that doesn’t make sense? I’m so tired I don’t even want to argue. … Actually, no, that’s not true. I’m an insufferable know-it-all; I love arguing.

I’m so tired I dream about sleeping. Not that it’s unusual for me to dream about being in bed with my eyes shut in pure bliss — only in these dreams, I’m passed out, fully clothed, and Laura Prepon isn’t there. (Yes, Laura Prepon. I’m a ginger and a narcissist; I have a thing for redheads.)

I’m so tired, I down a 5-Hour Energy every five minutes, and still nothing. Weird; it works for all the people in their commercials.

I’m so tired I spend entire weekends — plus all state and federal holidays — tag-team napping with my wife. And we’ll continue to do so until our daughter figures out how to pick the lock on our bedroom door (and she’s getting perilously close).

In fact, the only time my wife and I are both awake together these days is when we’re putting the kids to bed.

Actually, that’s not entirely true. Every once in a while, as I said, we do manage to stick it out to the televised portion of our night — on separate couches, of course. But usually we’re both passed out before the second act plot twist (especially for episodes light on the softcore pornography).

Happy coincidence: this usually takes place right when one of the children wakes up for the first of what can be as many as seven more times (never fewer than three). Hence, even when I attempt to cadge an eight hour-night’s sleep, it’s all hacked up into bits. So on the rare occasions I actually get the Laura Prepon dream, I’m always interrupted. Then Laura gets all weirded-out and bails.

I know, I know: I shouldn’t complain. If I want more sleep, I should move down South (which I’d be a fool to do now that we might get a Dave & Buster’s).

That’s the thing about Juneau. It’s like that Eagles song “Hotel California”: you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave. I guess what I’m trying to say is, we are all just prisoners here. Of our own device.

And so I’ve come to accept summertime exhaustion as part of the deal I’ve struck to live here. Plus, my wife just brought home an industrial grade coffee grinder, so it’s all good.

Still, that doesn’t stop me from griping entirely. The other night, discussing the situation with my mother, she had the nerve to blame me — me! — and the rest of today’s parents for our collective ineptitude.

Apparently, we’re doing it wrong, and not just sleep training — she means everything, in general. When my mom and her septuagenarian friends get together, that’s what they talk about, all the mistakes we’re making with their grandchildren.

Okay, mom, well, if that’s the case. … Where do you think I learned my parenting skills? Who taught me how to do this stuff?

You, all right! I learned it by watching you!

Parents who indulge their kids, have children who indulge their kids. This message brought to you by the Partnership for a Nap-Free America.

• Geoff Kirsch is a Juneau-based writer and humorist. “Slack Tide” appears every second and fourth Sunday in Neighbors.