It’s the middle of the night, hubby & I are sound asleep. Suddenly, I hear that all-too-familiar pattern:

Now, I have no problem at all with my lovely little boy climbing in between us so we can soothe away his fears. And really, it’s calming to me too, after all that door slamming, to rub his back and watch him drift off to sleep.

It’s what comes next…what I like to refer to as the “pretzel fish”: a twisted, flipping, flailing mass of body parts. My sweet little 6 year old is no longer cute and cuddly; he’s now armed (and legged) and dangerous. Sure, I eventually fall back to sleep, but it’s that kind of semi-conscious sleep where I’m completely aware of every slap and poke my little darling is sending my way.

Now, in case you’re wondering what hubby is doing, take a guess. Did you guess he was sound asleep? Good for you! And why is he asleep? Because he hasn’t given up ONE INCH of his bed space. No, adding someone else to the queen-size bed doesn’t mean everyone gets a third. It means Daddy still gets his half and Mommy and junior split the other. And ho-ho-ho, is Mommy getting her full quarter? Not likely. Remember what it felt like in university to sleep over at your significant other’s and share his/her twin bed? (No? Oh, maybe I’m the only one going to hell around here.)

At some point in the night, after my neck has become permanently cricked, Daddy rouses himself and carries junior off to bed. My hero.

And of course, lying there dodging the flapping arms and legs has allowed my mind to write up a rough draft of this post.