P.J. likes me. I know this.
But sometimes I have to remind myself that just because you like someone doesn’t mean you have to like sleeping next to someone. (Don’t get me wrong- his sleeping options haven’t changed. This is not a democracy, it’s a marriage. But he can have his feelings.)
Lemme ‘splain.
I’m a bit of a…hmm…an ambitious sleeper. My goal is to cover as much ground as possible. I am Lewis and/or Clark and your pillow is the Pacific Coast.
P.J. is a Zen Buddhist monk. (Perhaps by necessity at this point.) He requires very little, sleep-wise: a pillowesque thing, a corner of a blanket (if he is especially lucky), four solid hours. He sleeps with one eye open, a hand on the Louisville Slugger propped by the nightstand, ready for anything. He scoops up Nora in the morning at her first babble. He brings the cats downstairs for feeding if they yowl at her door.
As for me, I’ve slept through thunderstorms, car alarms, and a good portion of my toddler’s early morning antics. (I tell people that she’s slept through the night since seven weeks. I actually have no idea if this is true. Bottom line- Mama slept. We all slept!) I can’t help it. My Mom recently informed me that I took two naps a day until I was three and even napped in the afternoons after I started school. I am either a really stellar sleeper or severely vitamins D and B12 deficient.
But back to P.J.
His dream of dreams is to sleep sans wife, baby, two cats, sippy cup, bib, five board books, eighteen blankets (did I mention I am never warm,whilst he is one of those Amish wood-burning furnaces?) and perhaps- just perhaps- somewhere he could stretch out his legs. It’s good to have dreams.
This will never happen, however.
Unfortunately, my happy sleep is occasionally interrupted by terrifying nightmares and wacko sleepwalking stints. His job is to talk me down, hold my hand, and prevent me from eating toothpaste caps. (I know the household tasks seem inordinately skewed towards Peej at this point, but rest assured. I hold my own. You’d gag if I told you from where I removed poop this week alone.)
We spent a good part of Christmas week at his folks’ house in Cincinnati, sleeping on the third floor in separate beds- in his childhood bedroom, in fact. His mother asked if we wanted to push the beds together. “Nope!” he happily exclaimed. And so for three days we slept all Ozzie n’ Harriet style, waving goodnight to each other. With the occasional high five.
Finally, on Christmas Eve, I pushed the beds together. Crestfallen isn’t a word I bandy about, overmuch. But he was. I calmly explained to him that I did not get married and fix up a house and have someone’s baby only to sleep solo in a twin bed on the eve of a major holiday. He couldn’t argue with that. (Or didn’t.)
He falls asleep on couches, later apologizing for coming up to bed so late. But I know what’s up. I even asked him point blank last night- You don’t even want to sleep next to me anymore, do you?
His response? “No! I love sleeping in the same bed…room as you.”
But I think things will stay as they are for now. I could be bought, however, with two special, magical little words.
“Vintage Vespa.”
He has his lifestyle holdout, I have mine.
(Three more-) “With A Sidecar.”
Your move, Philly Joe.
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