Nighttime Wrestle Matches
Do you remember the children’s
song, “Ten in a Bed”?
There were ten in a bed
And the little one said
“Roll over, roll over!”
So they all rolled over
And one fell out.
There were nine in a bed
And the little one said
“Roll over, roll over!”
On and on it goes until there is only one sadistic child left alone in a very big bed! That song is my life; except I am the one who is left scratching my head and rubbing my bum wondering how I managed to be the lucky recipient of the one way ticket to the floor.
I love my bed. It is a huge oversized king bed with a perfect combination of foams and fibers that provide just the right amount of support and comfort. My 800 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets are enough to make you never want to get up. My pillows cradle my head like a mother does her newborn. Basically, at the end of a hard day, which is practically every day in my house, I look forward to nothing more than to crawl into my bed and wait for the Sandman to pay his visit. Except on sleepover nights!
Somehow it has become a tradition in my home that when daddy is away on a trip, at least one night, the kids get to have a sleepover with me in my bed. I am not certain as to why this is such a treat, but hey, I am not too proud to admit that I enjoy having a carrot to dangle over them like a race horse. Anyway, usually the kids argue, fight and push each other. So with this in mind, I split them up. But the other night I had two sets of puppy dog hazel eyes staring up at me, promising me they would behave and “Pretty Pleasing” me “With a Cherry on Top” to death. I caved in.
My kids are not small but they are still half my size. Even if you put the two of them together they would only make one full size me. I know for a fact that I am smaller than my husband. I also know that hubby and I fit perfectly in the bed together. Now I am not a mathematical genius but by my calculations, there should be more than enough room in that bed for all of us. Yet every time they join me in my little piece of heaven, I end up being tossed out like day old news.
My little angels turn into hobbits at nighttime. They burrow and mess up all the covers as if they were trying to make their way to Middle-earth. They sleep horizontally across the bed instead of vertically, which means I am bound to get a toe up my nose at some point during the night. Sock Monkey, or whatever other favorite stuffed friend that has been chosen that night, ends up in places that a doll really should not be.
Then there is the 3 a.m., “Roll over I need more room,” demands – by the littlest one mind you. The plea is followed by a power-drive-elbow to my head that would make the WWE proud. A royal rumble then breaks out over who has more covers. I start screaming for them to stop. “Someone is going to get hurt,” I shout! And every time that someone ends up being me! How do they do it?
I know what the end result will be every time. I wake in the morning with an achy back, a migraine from lack of sleep, cranky and badly in need of coffee.
And yet, even knowing this is how it always turns out, I do it again and again and yup … again. Why, you might ask? Because I know there will sadly come a day when my children will stop asking to sleep in my bed. Either that, or perhaps it’s the temporary memory loss caused by all the blows to the head during previous nighttime wrestle matches!
Sharon Fuentes is a mom in search of a good night’s sleep and a frequent contributor to Westchester Family.
