Like Bill Clinton, I am developing a reputation.

Not that kind of reputation.

This has nothing to do with sleeping around. This has to do with sleep itself, grabbing some shuteye, catching some Zs - zatching, as they say in hipper circles.

In Bill's case, the road to infamy leads to Convent Avenue Baptist Church in Harlem a couple of weeks ago, where TV cameras caught the former president reposing - eyes closed, cheek in hand - instead of listening to the Martin Luther King Day speaker.

This was much worse than when the "legendary napper" was caught snoozing at a Mets game, though not so globally significant as when he dozed at Ronald Reagan's funeral during George Bush's eulogy in the company of dignitaries from 165 nations.

As for me, my sleep dysfunction may not be public, but it does have political implications, at least in the politics of relationship with the youngest of my three children.

Every time I settle in to read or watch a movie with this particular child - and only this particular child - my lids get heavy, my body slows down, and soon enough, my chin is on my chest.

"I do not like them here or there," Dr. Seuss and I start off strong enough. "I do not like them anywhere. I do not like green eggs and haaaaaaaaaaaaa ... ZZZZZ..."

Same with film: Harry Potter could have had his scar surgically removed for all I know. Shrek could have married the donkey while I was cozying up with Morpheus. Bambi's mother may have come back alive.

Even mid-afternoon conversation with my 10-year-old will bring it on for me.

"What did you do in math class today?" I ask, as I break from the day's ceaseless activities of my day to settle with him on our big comfy couch.

He begins to reply, and I find myself in the land of Rip Van Winkle.

I try to spin this in only the most positive light.

"I think I really feel relaxed around you," I tell young Benjamin.

It's true that Benjamin's is a tranquil soul, by far the calmest in our family of Type-A, E to-the-extreme-on-the-Meyers-Briggs-introvert-extrovert-scale people. Just looking at him makes me want to meditate.

"It's also true, I tell him, that I'm old - OK older, aka more worn out, than when I was watching "Pocohontas" and "Aladdin" with his two siblings.

I tell him to consider that he is helping his old mom be uber-trendy, as he provokes me to experience the latest in American health fads: the power nap.

A short sleep of no more than 30 minutes, the power nap has been proven to increase productivity. Some companies are even investing in special enclosed recliners that wiggle employers awake when their break time is up. Office workers are bringing blankies to work. Execs are putting heads down on desks.

This respite from busy-ness allegedly invigorates and augments long-term health and is especially beneficial to the sleep-deprived, a category that would include the aforementioned Clinton.

As president, he survived on three to four hours of sleep a night with 15-to-20-minute catnaps during the day, a habit that earned him the label "legendary napper" in the book, "The Art of Napping."

This category would also include mothers, of course, even older mothers who may no longer tend babies round-the-clock, but who stay up watching Stephen Colbert `til midnight, then rise at 6 to help kids off to school. In fact, six hours of sleep or less is what 63 percent of Americans get per night, rendering most of us walking around yawning.

So there. I think my son gets it now.

And if he still looks at me blankly after all this explaining, I do what politicians are not very good at doing.

I apologize.

"I'm sorry. It must hurt your feelings when I fall asleep while you're telling me a story. I don't mean to hurt you, honey. I love you very much, and I will try to find a way to keep my eyes open."

And that's when I get out the toothpicks.

Journalist Debra-Lynn B. Hook lives in Kent, Ohio, with her husband and three children and has been writing about family life since 1987. Emails are welcome at dlbhook@yahoo.com.