A bit after midnight I heard noises coming from my son’s room and wandered over to check things out. The door was closed, but I could hear him speaking. For a moment I stood still and listened.
Two thoughts were going through my mind:
1) What the hell is he doing up. He’ll never be able to wake up for school.
2) If I find a stranger in there I am going to gouge his eyes and dislocate both of his shoulders.
And now a comment about comments that I will probably receive about this. Yes, I know that the gun is the great equalizer, but I also know that shooting someone is not going to be as satisfying as inflicting debilitating pain upon them with my hands. And believe me, if someone breaks into my home I am going to send them out of here in a wheelbarrow.
Raise your hand if you think that I am overprotective. Ok, put your hands down, you look really silly holding your hand up in the air. Besides I can’t see you.
All I can tell you is that watching or reading the news late at night is not conducive to dreaming about pink bunnies and rainbows.
As I stood outside the big boy’s door I broke into a huge smile. He was calling out for his friends and laughing. He talks in his sleep. That is ok, I do it too. If you ask my parents they’ll tell you that I have for as long as they can remember.
To the best of my knowledge it is not something that happens every night. Some nights I entertain everyone with my impression of a chain saw. Most of the time I am told that I speak in fragments that do not necessarily make sense.
I have a very graphic imagination. Usually when I remember a dream the fragment that sticks with me is quite vivid. Sometimes I’ll have the occasional nightmare and scream or yell in my sleep.
I understand that last night I punched the pillow and spent a solid two minutes swearing. I can’t say that I remember exactly what it was about, but I suspect that I was trapped in cleveland.
My paternal grandfather had his own sleep peculiarities, but the one that sticks out is that sometimes he would fall asleep with his eyes open. As a child it used to crack me up. For a long time I used to wonder if he was trying to play a trick upon me. I used to wave my hands at him or grab various objects and swing them in his direction.
If he didn’t respond I knew that he was ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ, especially if he was snoring. That was a really big clue.
But as he got older I have to admit that it began to make me worry a bit that he had died and wasn’t really asleep. So I’d creep up to his chair and listen to his breathing and watch his chest rise.
I remember one time he called out to me and asked me to step in front of him so he could see me. As I stepped in front of the chair he gave me a quick wack in the side with his cane and said “I am not dead, stop bothering me.”
And then with a soft giggle he went to sleep.
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