The King Bed

A few years ago when Big Daddy and I had to buy a new mattress, we briefly toyed with the idea of a king size. We have small nightly visitors. I know you know what I am talking about. Like me, when you’re together with the parent-friends you make loud self-righteous statements against the “family bed.” You claim that your children always go to sleep in their own beds.

Sure they do. Of course they do. They go to sleep in their own beds, but at some point over the course of the night they wander into yours.  With the first few kids you sigh mournfully and get up and drag them back to their own beds.  When you get to kid number four, you sigh mournfully and roll over.  Tell me I’m wrong.

That’s how I wake up in the morning.  I am clinging to the edge of the bed with one kid in my back, one kid poking my feet with toenails that need cutting, and a dog across the whole lot.

So you can see my secret delight when booking my hotel for Camp Catalyst, I booked a king room — for my little ol’ lonely self. Oh, yes, I did. In my vision, I woke up in the morning having 9-10 hours of uninterrupted sleep as I spread each and every limb over the entire width of that bed.

The first night I woke up clutching the edge of bed, like normal.

The second night I — I don’t know what to tell you — I rolled out of the king bed.  I think I just kept rolling thinking I would run into a kid.

The third night — the third night I just didn’t sleep at all.  I think I was overloaded with information from Camp Catalyst.  I think I’d been drinking too much coffee.  I think I was excited to see a long-time friend the next day.  I think I was lonely in the big bed.

Back home Sunday morning I woke up clinging to the edge of the bed with one kid in my back and another kid poking my feet with toenails that need cutting, and a dog across the whole thing.

I hadn’t slept so well in a long, long time.

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