Look, I am a soft creature of Polish descent. I am all for snuggling IF:
1) it’s not a stranger in the grocery store
2) it’s my chocolate-scented yacht-owning mythical Belgian lover
3) it’s my kids at bedtime, in THEIR beds
Yay! Love! Affection! Bonding! Super super!
BUT:
I Am Not Down Wit Da “family bed”, my peeps.
There. I said it.
I know. I’m going to hell. God maintains a special hell for parents who confess to feeding their children cupcakes for dinner or parents who can’t handle the freakin’ family bed. I will be there. I have picked out my flaming suite. 1118B, the ‘B’ being for Bad to the Bone Mommy. I think 1119B and 1121B are still available, if you’re interested. 1121B has a great view of Satan pitchforking mommies and daddies who laughed out loud at the baby sling.
Don’t get me wrong here. I was lucky that my breasts cooperated, so I was able to breastfeed both girls and snuggle them into milky bliss until they were each 24 months old or so. Then I closed up shop and posted a “YOU MUST BE AT MOST THREE YEARS OLD TO SUCKLE UNLESS YOU ARE A CHOCOLATE-SCENTED BELGIAN LOVER” sign on my Victoria’s Secret bra.
Victoria’s true secret is that she never whipped out her ta-tas and then forgot they were still hangin’ loose when the FedEx guy popped by. FedSex? No, the FedEx Man did not ring twice. He was horrified, and faked my signature in the truck.
And then there was that time when my lactating breasts dropped into a British man’s face on a transatlantic flight. I was fetching something out of the overhead compartment, and had no clue my nursing bra was wide open. He got quite an eyeful, poor chap. Like the oxygen masks, my breasts did not inflate, and he made no attempt to strap them onto his face.
Anyway, back to the “family bed.” Hey, I know it works for some people. I want whatever’s in your families’ best interest. If you are Down Wit Da Family Bed, rock on! You are stronger, tougher, more extroverted souls than I, and I bow to you.
I woke up at 2am with my clammy perpendicular sleepers shoving me off the bed. H-Belle was stark naked and freezing. (Her choice.) Her tiny chubby freezing feet were pressed where the sun don’t shine, and where I don’t need it to shine. YOWZA. The other perpendicular sleeper was clothed, but she was annoying perpendicular sleeper #1.
MY CHILDREN DISLIKE EACH OTHER SO MUCH THEY ACTUALLY FIGHT IN THEIR SLEEP. SLEEP-BICKERING.
“SToooooOOOOOP IT, SOPHIE! THE WOLF WITH THE GREEN FACE! I MEAN IT!”
“YOU STOP IT! I WANT CARROTS! OW! GET OFF MY CARROTS! THE CARROT PILLOWS ARE COLD! I HATE YOU!”
Why did I not scoop them up and deposit them back in their beds? Because Mommy Dearest had taken a Tylenol PM-type thing that put her in the world of cold carrots and wolves with green faces too. So we all spent the night miserably chewing up each other’s personal space.
In the morning, I was ready to hand them off to anyone riding a motor vehicle down the street. They don’t understand. To them, no big deal. After all, Wordgirl comes on at 7am on PBS, so there’s something to look forward to. That, and my dear friend who takes them to school with her kids in her massive car-thing. She buys them all donuts on Fridays. One can get over a crappy night’s sleep pretty easily if Wordgirl and donuts are all you have to look forward to.
My Friday is all about unemployment insurance, defaulted student loans, economic hardship and unemployment deferment forms, talking to “Rosemary” in East India about said forms, paying bills I can’t actually pay, and trying to identify the wretched stink in the kitchen. One needs a good rest to handle such matters.
I LIKE sleeping alone. I LIKE it. I am an introvert, and we are desperate for whatever quiet time and alone time we can carve out of this loud, raging, cold-feet-in-your-crotch-at-2am world. Desperation sets in quickly!
I was on the verge of weeping upon awakening. There were lunches to pack (I hiss like a maimed cobra at this anyway), shoes to be dug out from under filthy couches, clothing to fight about, dogs to feed and let out into the muddy backyard of tropical New England violence. Where are the scientists? No need to go to Bolivia.
The girls are going to Daddy’s tonight. I am going to bed at 8. As in, 8am. As in, NOW. I am going back to bed, my peeps. No, you may not join me, unless you are warm and chocolate-scented and can fake a Belgian accent. And “Rosemary” in India will have to wait. I am a broken woman. Fi, fi, on the “family bed.” I am the walking family dead. Pray for me.
And get your apps in for suites 1119B and 1121B, if you fit the profile. Our potluck casseroles will always be so nice and toasty hot.
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