“Mom, I had a bad dream.”
“Mom, I feel sick.”
“Mom, can I snuggle wiff you?”
Some way or another, about once a month, in the still of the night, all four kids manage to sneak under the covers of our California King and wiggle and worm my husband and me to the frightening brinks of our pillowtop mattress.
I honestly don’t know how couples can even sleep at all in a double bed. Add just one fussy baby to those tight quarters and someone’s on the couch. We were once houseguests in a home where the guest bedroom sported a double bed. My 6’5” husband and I took one look at what seemed like a crib mattress, wondered if they were serious, looked back at each other and rock-paper-scissored for it. (In the end, my husband was quite chivalrous and let me have it.)
I know some parents have a blanket rule that all scared, frightened, and under-the-weather children must sleep on the floor in the master bedroom if they won’t sleep in their own beds. But I’m a sucker for a sleepy, scratchy, soprano voice that whispers, “Can I cuddle wiff you?” long after the crickets have stopped chirping. I think, “Alright, it’s just one,” and then give them a big, “Oh, come here” and hold them close, eating them up in the fluffy duvet.” Sigh…It’s heaven.
But about every full moon or so, those cozy warm bodies don’t stop at just one. They grow from one, to two, to three, to four…for a grand total of six hot, sticky, please-don’t-wet-the bed bodies in there! Four of those six bodies refuse to sleep parallel to the bigger two bodies. They prefer a sort of starfish, perpendicular sleeping position, ideal for kicking the bigger bodies in the kidneys.
Last night I felt like one of those die-hard mountain climbers who spend their nights perched on the precarious ledges jutting out of steep cliffs with nothing but a mummy bag and a piece of rope to keep them from falling right off. In my sleepy, semi-conscience state, I was expertly maneuvered and shoved by eight tiny little feet right up to the precipice of my own bed for the majority of the night. And I did not have the mountain climber luxury of being strapped in.
But them? Oh, they slept like logs. Scattered, fallen, toppled logs. The kind of logs with rosy cheeks, cupid bow lips, and soft cherubic hands that love to pat your face, hug you when the sun comes up and sing,
Margaret Anderson is a BYU graduate, returned missionary, and mother of four small children. You can read more on her blog: www.jamsandpickles.wordpress.com