Thursday, July 08, 2004
Sleepwalking
zzzz.... zzzzz.... zzzz....
I am blissfully asleep after yet another grueling 16-hour work day. I’ve had some insomnia since I got pregnant, and while I’m trying not to complain, I am pretty tired. But not today. I’ve slipped into the sleep of wonderland. I am floating, weightless.
zzzz...
zzzz....
zzzzz....
zzzzz....
...
A light explodes over my head and the bedroom door explodes inward!
“My god! I overslept!” shouts Scott from the doorway. I half sit up.
“What?”
I squint at him through sleep-crusted eyes. Then I groan and flop back down on the pillow. He’s sleepwalking again. I’d gone to bed and left him to read on the couch. He must have fallen asleep.
“Honey,” I ask rhetorically. “What time is it?”
“The clock says 8:15!” He nearly shouts.
Startled, I look over at the clock. I sigh. I flip the switch from the “alarm” setting to the “time” setting. It now reads 3:30. In the morning.
“It’s 3:30 a.m. You aren’t late for work.”
I cover my head with the blanket. The light is burning a hole in my skull.
There is a moment of silence, then I hear him rush through the bathroom, to the living room, and open the front door. Why?! Is there a Magic Time Man in the front yard? Why do we have 17 clocks in a 300-square-foot apartment if he doesn’t believe any of them? He sprints back into the bedroom, frantic and confused.
“It’s dark outside! I can’t tell what time it is!”
“How about 3:30 a.m.?” I mumble from under the blanket.
“I don’t know!”
I sit back up, blinking against the light of the giant fireball suspended over my head.
“You need to calm down and sober up.”
He stops at this, composes himself, and glares at me.
“I am perfectly sober,” he carefully enunciates.
Sure. I’m pregnant, not stupid.
“Baby, check the clock in the bathroom. That one is always right.”
He looks.
“It says 3:30.”
“Well, there you go. Come to bed. You have about 13 hours before you’re late to work. Again.”
He pauses, still uncertain.
“Honey, you’re okay. Turn off the light, and come to bed.”
“Okay,” he resigns. “But I’m going to smoke a cigarette first.”
Great.
I am blissfully asleep after yet another grueling 16-hour work day. I’ve had some insomnia since I got pregnant, and while I’m trying not to complain, I am pretty tired. But not today. I’ve slipped into the sleep of wonderland. I am floating, weightless.
zzzz...
zzzz....
zzzzz....
zzzzz....
...
A light explodes over my head and the bedroom door explodes inward!
“My god! I overslept!” shouts Scott from the doorway. I half sit up.
“What?”
I squint at him through sleep-crusted eyes. Then I groan and flop back down on the pillow. He’s sleepwalking again. I’d gone to bed and left him to read on the couch. He must have fallen asleep.
“Honey,” I ask rhetorically. “What time is it?”
“The clock says 8:15!” He nearly shouts.
Startled, I look over at the clock. I sigh. I flip the switch from the “alarm” setting to the “time” setting. It now reads 3:30. In the morning.
“It’s 3:30 a.m. You aren’t late for work.”
I cover my head with the blanket. The light is burning a hole in my skull.
There is a moment of silence, then I hear him rush through the bathroom, to the living room, and open the front door. Why?! Is there a Magic Time Man in the front yard? Why do we have 17 clocks in a 300-square-foot apartment if he doesn’t believe any of them? He sprints back into the bedroom, frantic and confused.
“It’s dark outside! I can’t tell what time it is!”
“How about 3:30 a.m.?” I mumble from under the blanket.
“I don’t know!”
I sit back up, blinking against the light of the giant fireball suspended over my head.
“You need to calm down and sober up.”
He stops at this, composes himself, and glares at me.
“I am perfectly sober,” he carefully enunciates.
Sure. I’m pregnant, not stupid.
“Baby, check the clock in the bathroom. That one is always right.”
He looks.
“It says 3:30.”
“Well, there you go. Come to bed. You have about 13 hours before you’re late to work. Again.”
He pauses, still uncertain.
“Honey, you’re okay. Turn off the light, and come to bed.”
“Okay,” he resigns. “But I’m going to smoke a cigarette first.”
Great.
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