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The fire still lingers in the fireplace, the news drones on the television, and I fall asleep peacefully on the couch. I awake during Letterman and decide to head to bed. Silently, I lay down. Just as I close my eyes, the sound of an express Metra train fills the air. It's Jafar, the husband. I try to get Jafar to flip over and point his nose and mouth in the opposite direction of my ears. No such luck. I grab my blanket and go back to the living room.
Suddenly, I am aware of a presence by my feet. This time it's Jasmine, daughter number 1. "Jas, do you want to lay on the couch with me?"
She shakes her head in the affirmative.
Sleeping with a bony child who moves all over the place is almost as appealing as sleeping in the snoring chamber created by Jafar. "Okay, Jas, let's go sleep in your room."
So, I pick up my blanket and go to the kids' room. Just call me Linus. I crawl into the bottom bunk. Adults should not sleep in bunk beds. If you forget where you are and sit up, decapitation is a possibility. I have to fold my body to get into the bed because the ladder takes up a couple feet at the end of the bed. Jasmine just stands and looks at me. "Aren't you going up to your bunk?" I get a blank stare. "Do you want to come in here with me?" A nod. She climbs over my body. I still end up with bony knees and elbows poking me.
"Ma, ma, ma, ma, ma," chants Jane, daughter number two.
I look up, and she's pointing toward the kitchen. She wants a bottle. So, I stumble to the kitchen, give her the bottle, and return to the lower bunk. I can hear the evil Jafar snoring throughout the house, so I don't even try to return to my bed. Four a.m., the "ma, ma" chant starts again. I stumble to the kitchen, this time Jafar actually goes to the child's bed. I try to return to my own bed this time, and the lights and television are on. Jafar fell asleep early, and is wide-awake at four a.m..
I return to the couch without my blanket this time. Sleep overcomes me for the next hour and a half, although I hear Jafar puttering throughout the house.
As I wander about with my blanket dragging behind me, I think Virginia Woolf missed the point when she wrote A Room of One's Own. While, I would love a room of my own to nurture my creativity (actually, if I ever get around to cleaning the basement, I will have my little activity area), I really need a soundproof room of my own just to get a decent night's sleep.
Jan. 25, 2000 |
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