Monday, February 6, 2012

Ramblings of the Sleepless

"I WILL sleep tonight!" My overly-loud proclamation practically echoes off the bedroom walls. I glare ominously at each of my three bed-mates in turn. Several consecutive nights of broken, restless sleep have left me at the end of my emotional rope.

"Sorry," whispers The Snorer. "I know you are," I sigh.

"I no kick," states The Kicker as she elbows both her father and me in the ribs trying desperately to wiggle down in between us.

The Farter doesn't speak, but her belly rumbles loudly. A portent of ill winds to blow.

"I no wanna kick" states The Kicker again. I'd believe her, but she elbowed me in the boob and stole half of my blankets as she said it. She is burrowing frantically in the belief that if she can establish a beachhead in the next 5 seconds, she'll be allowed to stay. She wants to stay. She has no desire to spend the night in her own bed. The one where she can kick, thrash, moan and burrow with unimpeded impunity. No, she'd much rather be with us... kicking...

I sigh again - the martyr - and grudgingly grant her an inch or two. She smiles and arranges my share of the blankets over herself. I turn off the light and pretend to relax.

The Snorer starts in, and The Kicker sucks energetically on her thumb. I whisper "I'll be back soon" to the one who's awake, and move to stand. Before my feet hit the floor, she has co-opted my pillow. "Is nice for me" she states without apology.

I move into the other room to read. The Farter does a bit of martyr-sighing of her own, heaves herself to her feet and follows me down the hall.

When the noises from the bedroom finally cease, we make our way back in. The Snorer has his back to the door - the reason he has stopped snoring. The Kicker has flung her entire body onto the pillows. Her head is buried under her dad's. Her feet rest where my head belongs. I cover them with another pillow, and slide into what's left of my place. My eyes close and I try to regulate my breathing down to a sleep welcoming rhythm.

The Farter begins to pace. Her toenails click loudly across the room. She whuffles in agitated bursts. Then she makes her move. An exploratory front-feet-only jump onto the bed. And down. I sigh again - an expert now - and whisper "come on up, baby dog." She lands on the foot of the bed with a grunt and begins to pant loudly. We're in for some rain - the Dog Barometer has spoken.

'It's fine, just relax' I instruct myself. It's no use. I can't sleep with an agitated Farter on the bed, When she's scared, she doesn't notice who she steps on. If she hurts my baby in an attempt to hide from the rain, I'll have to kill her... sooooooo...  hyper-vigilance it is. My concern is completely valid. All eighty-five pounds of The Farter begins to creep up between us almost immediately. I hold her back with a stiff-arm to the face, but she shakes me off and lunges forward. In a few quick moves, she has her giant nose buried under the pillows - directly under The Kicker's body. She shakes and shivers in a very 'Something Wicked This Way Comes' fashion. *sigh* Her amateur dramatics are highly believable, but the air outside is still. The night is quiet and calm. The Farter remains unconvinced. Her belly rumbles again, and she burps then licks her lips in a manner which suggests that she may throw up soon.

dammit. Oh well. I'm up. If she's going to barf, she can do it out here instead of on my bed. Of course, now her stomach is silent and she sleeps peacefully at my feet.

I wonder if my spot is still even partly available?

1 comment:

  1. I love the way the story is told mostly through characterization in short, deft strokes. What a great blog entry; it's an essay!