When we were first married, T and I had two cats: Macintosh, a black and white rowdy boy named for my very first computer, and August, a tortoiseshell cranky gal named for our wedding month. Loved those cats. They were loving and lovable, great friends, and always entertaining.
Particularly at bedtime.
Suddenly, one would tear across the room, lunging from sofa to floor, leaping over the dining table, scampering onto the kitchen counter, and back again, nails digging into the carpet with each speed burst. Soon, they'd intersect each other, ramping up the speed until they were black and brown blurs racing from one room to the next.
Soon after their nightly streak, the cats would saunter to their chosen sleep spots, lick paw and nether regions with complete aplomb, and settle down for the night.
Kids get the night crazies, too. Our youngest has never liked to go to bed without popping up at least three or four times to ask an important question, cuddle just five more minutes, or hit the facilities. She ratchets up before she settles down, a pattern that will likely continue throughout her life.
I've discovered knitters also get the night crazies. Casting on a complicated project after 9 PM is downright demented. I have to get the pattern established before I set it aside for the evening, which means frenzied knitting right past the time I really, really, REALLY need to go to sleep. But there's rarely time to knit until late at night, and I LOVE to knit.
Just one more race. One more question. One more row.