Sleeping with Jellybean has recently become a full-contact sport, like an MMA pillow fight. She flops. She kicks. She head-butts. She flails. She back-hands, and I’m pretty sure she’d slap on the figure-four leg lock if she weren’t so short. Seriously, I’ve seen less thrashing from a shark-attack victim.
And she does it all with her eyes closed.
See, at some point, My Lovely Wife and I have become terribly lazy parents, and have stopped making Jellybean sleep in her own bed. We got tired of the fight.
Turns out Jellybean brought the fight to us … or rather to me.
With me working and My Lovely Wife getting home progressively later, by the time we did dinner and dishes and bathed, we just didn’t have the energy to read books and put Jellybean to bed. We’d end up falling asleep in her tiny bed, contorted into a pretzel with half our bodies numb, or we’d have to ignore her pleading and bellowing to “just sleep with us.”
Plus, though we’ve never said as much, we like the romanticized idea of cuddling, knowing the years when Jellybean openly likes us are disappearing faster than Oreos at a Weight Watchers meeting, so we want to hold onto them — and her — for as long as possible.
Also, we’ve got a king-sized bed, so there’s plenty of room to roam.
Trouble is, no matter how much space I start out with, I invariably end up with but a sliver of mattress and barely enough blanket to cover one tattooed shoulder. In addition to her pummeling and squirming, Jellybean also sleeps all catawampus to where she’s nothing but sharp angles of knees and elbows, like a quadrangle.
She eventually settles down, providing a few moments of peace before the real assault begins — snoring.
I’m often startled awake in the middle of the night convinced that I’m sharing a bed with Walter Matthau, or an 85-year-old lifetime smoker in a Darth Vader respirator.
How something so awful can come out of something so precious is a believe-it-or-not worthy of Ripley.
You know how outside noises can sometimes invade your dreams? The other night, Jellybean was on a real tear, and I had a nightmare that I was being chased by an asthmatic Cujo through an active granite quarry, where bulldozers and dump trucks were running at full speed. And that’s when she’s sleeping on her side. On her back, she rattles the windows of the neighbor’s house.
I can’t explain the late-night walloping, but the snoring is not all Jellybean’s fault. She’s got the biggest tonsils this side of T-Rex. It’s a family curse. My Lovely Wife and The Diva both have tonsils so large, given the right circumstances, they can be seen from across the room when they talk.
I too had large tonsils. But like a Real Man I had them removed as a wee lad with a piece of bailing wire wrapped around a rusty doorknob. Jellybean won’t be so lucky. Her ear, nose and throat doctor’s in no rush to yank those suckers out.
So for now, we’ll just have to live with the snoring and flopping. But truth be told, those few moments of cuddling are worth the price of a pummeling.
Contact Brett Buckner at firstname.lastname@example.org.