I hear what you’re thinking.
ML, why are you up at 5 am? You are a 9-10 hour sleeper. Remember that flight you took this fall that left at 7 am? You had to have a bladder buster coffee to make it to the gate and then you had to go to the bathroom for the next three hours on a packed airplane. You should go back to bed.
I know. Or maybe the answer is I don’t know.
I have a cold which is making me stuffy. That was one problem. Then I woke up — as I often do — not next to my husband of nearly 19 years, but to a kindergarten kid who was kicking me in the knee caps. Oh, the other one was there all right. He was on the other side of the large kindergarten kid.
Oh, yes, I know your kids slept through the night in their own beds starting at five months, but mine don’t. They go to bed okay, but they come migrating in the middle of the night. And I know, you did something brilliant like switch to a blue blanket instead of a green one and then they stayed in their own beds to which I say, “Yippee for you!” We have tried all the tricks.
So anyway, I woke up at 4:30 all stuffy and squished up to the edge of the bed. “That’s it!” I said to myself. “I am going to sleep next to my husband of nearly 19 years.” And I pushed that big kid over and crawled in the middle.
Friends, I am a 43-year-old, slightly claustrophobic woman and a side sleeper. I rolled to one side to face my husband.
Although he currently kicks me in the knee caps, that kindergarten kid started out life pushing some sort of nerve in my right hip which has never recovered. I cannot sleep on that side.
I flipped to the other side.
The large kindergarten kid kicked me in the knee.
I rolled to my back.
My husband, an extraordinary man in every respect, does not even snore . . . that is to say, he doesn’t make a traditional Fred Flintstone snoring sound. Or the sound my father made in that cabin in Yellowstone which caused my sister Sarah to get up and look for a bear. He, however, does take a large inhale of breath through the nose and then pfffts out in a short blast of air through the mouth. I call it “pffft-ing,” as in “Please roll over. You’re pffft-ing me.” Only he couldn’t roll over because there was no room, was there?
So in summary: Couldn’t breathe. Kicked on left. Pffft-ed on right. Got up.
And that’s my day so far.