I Am My Mother

All my life, I've watched my mother spontaneously fall asleep in all places. When the bell strikes 8, she'll be unconscious on a couch, in a chairs, in a movie. Name it, she'll sleep on it. One second she's awake, the next she's mashing her face into her palm.

Mom (right) face-mashed asleep 45 years ago.

She's fallen asleep in mid-sentence, more than once. No joke.

Mom. Still face-mashing.

Now I have joined the club.

Take a week of early rising, add a dash of heat, 3 pounds of Italian food and mix in 3 beers (okay, 4) and stir. This is the recipe to becoming my mother.

We were with friends at a restaurant. Afterwards, we stopped at our house for a closer. I just wanted to sit down. I remember laying on the floor with the dogs. I vaguely remember laughter, something laid over me. Something flashing. Half an hour later, I came to (barely).

There were pictures of stuffed animals on my shoulder, blankets over my head. There were pictures of friends posing next to me. They were laughing. I had sleep-face. I fell asleep while talking to my wife.

If this was college, I'd be missing an eyebrow.