by Nancy Garber (Author), Lynn Wheeling (Illustrator)

When I was a little girl, my first grade teacher gave me the book “Amy’s Long Night” for Christmas. This was 1971 in a tiny Catholic school so neither the fact that the teacher gave students gifts or that they were specifically for Christmas was weird.

The teacher, Miss Zinc, handed out a book to each of the probably 15 kids in the class but mine had my name on it and made me feel super-special.

The book tells the tale of Amy, a fairly precocious youngster who only wants to stay up all night for her sixth birthday. I loved reading about how her older siblings went to bed and even her mom and dad retired, leaving Amy and her dog, George, to wait out sunrise (which, of course, never happens because she passes out on the floor around midnight).

Back then, nighttime just seemed endless and slightly mysterious. Like the black hole of my day, especially since — barring a bad dream about Witchiepoo that had me up and looking out the window once (I’m sorry but that show was terrifying) — I spent most of my long nights of childhood fast asleep.

I think about the book a lot, especially when — as it so often happens nowadays — I find myself wide awake at 2:30 a.m. As I did last night.

A coughing fit and subsequent trip to the bathroom had me up and instead of just going through the drill zombie-style and maintaining a level of semi-consciousness required to get my pants up and down, I started to have actual thoughts.

The kiss of death.

Some of the things running through my brain were not terrible, like the three posts I composed for this blog. Seven hundred word masterpieces. The unfortunate part of nighttime brilliance is that it is almost impossible to recreate in the light of day.

Which is why I’m writing about not being able to sleep and not something more exciting.

But then my thoughts started going down darker paths. I composed letters/emails/rants to all those who have wronged me over the course of a lifetime. In that group I included the figure skating instructor who made me feel stupid when I was, like, 8 for not getting the hang of skating backwards and my former in-laws.

That’s what a beady-eyed grudge holder I am under cover of darkness.

I always know when I start reliving my wedding 23 years ago or, say, high school graduation that I’ve really gone off the rails and my brain is apt to start smoking at any minute.

For some reason darkness just brings, not adventure — the way “Amy’s Long Night” promised — but doubt and disappointment. Fear.

I looked around my room, surveying the outline of book piles, camera equipment and stacks of documents and thought, “What kind of scattered, unfocused life am I living?”

And that’s when I knew I needed to reign myself in. Put a stop to all of that bad energy just radiating off me lying on the sunken left side of my king-sized bed.

I concentrated on not concentrating on anything and heard the far off horn of the commuter train speed through town and church bells somewhere clang four times.

FOUR TIMES? It’s 4-the-fucking-clock in the morning?

Right about then is when I heard the first bird tweet and knew I had to pass out before all of the fucking birds in the neighborhood started squawking and singinging and trilling and whatever other annoying noises they make at the crack of dawn.

And then. Thankfully. Darkness.

I think the next time I’m struck with a bout of insomnia, I’m going to take a page out of “Amy’s Long Night” and try to read a book to pass the time.

Middlemarch would have me passed out in no time.

Because all those bad thoughts do no one any good and are best left under the cover of darkness.

Even make-believe Amy and George know how scary bad thoughts are.