I realize children are our future and we should teach them well and feed them on our dreams, and a smile from a child is a package of sunshine and unicorn farts.
But my little package of sunshine and unicorn gas has been in the habit of yelling my name in the middle of the night with an invitation “to come sleep with me” in his twin bed, which really means “no sleep for hours then when I finally sneak back into my bed, a 30-minute respite before the next primal scream and I relent and just let him sleep in my goddamn bed.”
All this after me or my husband begin the night lying awake in his bed until he falls asleep, and realizing my child has a later bedtime than me.
Nightime is beginning to resemble that surreal hellscape I stumbled through when I was a barely function bag of cells “mothering” a newborn baby.
This morning I had a lengthy discussion about the merits of phrenology to detect lice when it became clear that a) I don’t know what phrenology is and b) I was actually talking to the coffeemaker.
There is a reason sleep deprivation is such an effective torture technique.
I vaguely recall my smug, child-free self boldy declaring “I would NEVER let my child sleep in my bed” when I would hear of parents getting kicked in the face multiple times by a child sleeping perpindicular to them.
I also vaguely remember rambling on about how I would never cook separate meals for my kid and he would just “eat what I’m eating.”
Aw, sweet, young Speaker7, you dumb fuck, you.
I’ve consulted all the experts like the random people who somehow have time to answer questions on wikianswers:
My options are limited. I could keep things as is and die earlier from it, but at least that’s sort of a type of sleep. I could engage in a nighttime battle with a victor who has more energy stores than the hottest part of the sun. Or I could spend the time making out with Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice because I swear he was just in my kitchen a second ago talking to Kato Kaelin about O.J. Simpson’s latest book “Okay I did It.”
It’s likely karmic retribution. I slept in my parent’s room so much, they kept a mattress tucked under their bed. I had convinced myself I was going to be murdered in my sleep. Amityville Horror may not be the most comforting bedtime story.
In fact, the last time I slept on my parent’s floor was when I was 23 and home for a visit. I had mistakenly assumed I could handle a viewing of the movie Scream without thinking I would be the next to be gutted and strung up a tree by Ghostface. After a fitful night of continually turning on my light, I gave in and curled up on the floor of their room only to slink out early in the morning.
So judging by my track record, only 20 more years of this. That third option is looking pretty good.
Speaker7’s bout of sleep deprivation is only making the experience of posting daily as a member of the Nano Poblano Team even more sheep. When I move my hand slowly in front of my face, I can see leprechauns.