When I was younger, I used to go off to bed hoping that my parents wouldn't become possessed by strange beings or turn into massively ugly creatures as they slept in their beds. I didn't really want to deal with rampaging monsters out to kill me in the morning. I think I watched too many warewolf horror flicks and alien sci-fi movies like Invasion of the Body Snatchers which my parents hadn't bothered to censor from me. So, my imagination would get the better of me and I would end up all hot and sweaty under my covers until I could stand it no longer and throw off the blankets, killer beasts and alien clones be damned at my door or hovering over me.
Last night I went to sleep having read a bit of the strange stories in Angels and Visitations and I nodded off at about 12:30 AM. I was woken up by the dog making loud, strange breathing noises, like shallow grunting deflecting off the wooden floors. I made sure he was OK and not suffocating to death, then was struck with a bout of insomnia. Think, think, think. I lay in the dark. What to eat for dinner tomorrow? I think 9:00 is a good time to give that Taryn Stack a call. People are usually in the office by nine. I need to buy some more good books to read. Then I was finally dozing off, on the threshold of sleep and awake, questioning god's existance and looking for his validation on the internet when suddenly I'm again awakened. This time by my husband stirring. He shuffled off to the bathroom to take a big dump (too much ice cream - lactose rejection), and again I lay there awake. Think, think, think. I turned on the light to make sure the dog wasn't suffering too much (I think he has some sort of allergy) and when I turned around Dylan was laying there with eyes wide open. I asked him "Are there monsters under the bed?" He says, "No. It's Chuckie's shirt and Chuckie's shoes under the bed (not that Chuckie, the Rug Rats Chuckie). There's no monster." Then he rolled over, shut his eyes and hugged his Pooh pillow. I turned off the light. Think, think, think. My husband comes back to bed and I ask "Too much ice cream?" He manages a muffled "Yeah". Soon they're both asleep. I pat Dylan to make sure he was still breathing, then I pat my husband because he's now snoring a little too loud. I hope he wasn't possessed by some alien while sitting in the bathroom. Then I pat Dylan again, hoping that he hasn't turned into some alien analytical thinking polite young genius and is instead the terrible two year old that he is that goes "Good morning Mama! Good morning! Wake up! Wake up! Need some help?" Then pushes my head off the pillow and drags my arm out of bed so I can spend my morning waking up with him.
6:25 AM | |
