Don’t get me wrong. I really love my bed. I love my soft sheets. I love my ergonomically correct pillow. I love the weight of the down comforter. I love the fluffy mattress pad. I love soft pajamas.
But I don’t love being in my bed for two hours in the middle of the night wide awake.
I’ll back up.
Last night, I was enjoying peaceful slumber on aforementioned soft sheets underneath aforementioned down comforter when I heard Nathan’s soft and unusually rhythmic call,
I rolled over and looked at the clock. 2:46 a.m. Michael lifted his head and shifted, so I jumped up and told him, “I’ll get him,” because I knew that Michael had to get up in just over two hours for a 6 a.m. surgery.
I went out into the family room. No Nathan.
I went upstairs and opened the boys’ bedroom door. There they were, sleeping like two little cherubs.
Then I realized that the rhythmic call I heard through my foam earplugs was simply Michael’s congested attempt at simultaneously sleeping and breathing.
Normally when one of the kids is up in the middle of the night, Michael gets up with them because he has the superpower ability to go right back to sleep. The minute my feet hit the floor, I’m awake for at least an hour. (He’s so great. I just love him so much.)
I know – poor, poor me. Sacrificing so my husband could awake at 5:00 a.m. and go save some kid’s eyesight.
My brain wouldn’t turn off, and I think I composed the bulk of our family Christmas letter – much of which now I have completely forgotten.
I think I finally fell back asleep after he got up, and my alarm went off 45 minutes later.
I’m sure there’s a quippy little ending to my tale of woe…but I’m too tired to think of it.