Children and the family bed
I woke up around 5:30 AM this morning because my son had decided that he wanted to spend quality time sleeping in our bed. By that point in time we never send him back to his room because it is too close to reveille anyway.
The hard part for me is forcing myself to go back to sleep for a little longer. It is the weekend, and I am not inclined to follow the weekday ritual of taking a shower in the dark. The other aspect that is more difficult is his desire to find way to force dad into curling up into a little ball.
But a father’s love is deep for his children and so is the concern that I might role over on him. He weighs more than 35 pounds and is over 3 feet tall, so I am not as concerned about crushing him, but old habits die hard. And now the old body betrays me with aches and pains in my aches in pains. A kink in the neck and a stitch in my side are my thank you.
Better yet I wake up to find that there is a wet spot. A mystery wet spot. What created it? I sometimes sweat in my sleep, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. I can think of some other ways it could happen, one makes me smile and the other makes me groan. Since my wife is sick and spent large parts of the night elsewhere it is not the former. I am afraid to consider the latter.
The little one has been potty-trained since this past January, but he usually uses a pull-up at night. It is a safety measure until we are sure that he will either wake up to answer the call of nature or sleep through the night without needing it.
I roll over and wonder when my right shoulder decided to declare war on the rest of the body. Later I’ll bring it up on charges of high treason and declare sentence, for now I have to inspect the mystery fluid. Oh how my life has changed.
It feels like a few years ago that I would have known precisely what that fluid was, the fluid that created the wet spot. It would have been a memorable night, a celebration. But I just know that it isn’t.
Grumbling I wonder why my wife chose to be sick now. Aren’t the mothers of the world supposed to be doing this. Shouldn’t I be outside working on the yard while someone else gets the mystery fluid. Oh, the humanity, Why must I spend my Sunday morning wondering if my son has urinated in my bed.
Ah, now I remember. I am 35 and married. The 25 year-old that is complaining in my ear about all of this is a memory, a whisper of the past and in moments will be relegated to the corner he occupies. He can rattle the cage later, the abba of the house has arrived.
The solution to this problem is to pretend that it is sweat. It may not be, but the reality is that the sheets should be changed. We changed them last weekend, so it makes sense to change them now.
The spot could be sweat, it could be urine or it could be beer that I grabbed while sleepwalking. It doesn’t matter, all that matters now is that the sheets are changed and that I grab some coffee.
Boker Tov from Los Angeles. Look out world, I am grumpy and awake.