Oh Baby, You Know I Hate To Sleep Alone

There is a conspiracy transpiring against me. It is a well known fact to those around me that I do not like to be alone. This was much more so the case before I had children; now I generally enjoy a quiet moment to myself. However, I still hate to sleep alone at night. I don't know what it is, but if I am in that bed at night by myself, I find it very difficult to fall asleep. Aaron and I can barely get a sentence out during the evening with the kids running around and interrupting constantly. Then, when they are put to bed, Aaron gets on World of Warcraft and I can't seem to really keep his attention. It is only in the bed, with the lights dim or off that we are able to hold a conversation. We giggle about the day, talk in funny voices, and name off what our names would be if we were one of the seven dwarfs. When I'm alone, I am drowned by the darkness and silence. I know that I grow weary and feel drowsy before most people, which is why sometimes I take my medication a little later to help me stay up a little later. This also proves to be a problem because low and behold, when I do, Aaron is passed out by 11 o'clock and I'm left to stay up until 2 or later by myself. It has happened so many times that I don't even try it anymore.

Last night was irritating to say the least. Aaron went to class both last night and Monday night. That means he doesn't get home until after 9 o'clock. I am especially tired because I've been wrangling two kids by myself all evening and I half expect him to also be tired after sitting in a classroom for a few hours. But nope. At 11, I turn to Aaron after finishing another episode of Desperate Housewives on Netflix (he secretly loves it) and tell him that I'm ready for bed. I ask if he's coming with me and he states a plain "no" without taking his eyes from his computer. "Why not?" I moan like a little girl with a pouty lip. "I'm not tired." He still does not avert his eyes and I start to dislike the obsessive compulsive way that he jutts out his chin and twists the hair of his beard while he's occupied with something. I do not say another word, but instead get up, tidy the living room, which at the moment is the only actual clean and organized room of the house, because of me, and then pile dishes in the sink and start to walk down the hall, muttering "Good night" under my breath. It is very obvious that I do not like the answer he has given me, and I want him to come tuck me in like he does every other night, but he is too occupied to even do that. I hear the old chair he loves squeak and groan as he gets up and heads down the hallway, anticipating the door opening. But instead, I hear the door of the bathroom close and I become more irritated.

I know that Aaron doesn't like Jude sleeping in the bed with us, so I create a plan to snag Jude out of his bed and allow him to fall asleep next to me, just so that when Aaron finally decides to claim his side of the bed, he will see Jude and me cuddling. If he says anything about it, I will smoothly retort that if he had been in the bed to tuck me in, it wouldn't have happened.

I sneak into the kids' room and the light from my bedroom shines directly on Tahiri's toddler bed, which is empty. I glance over to the corner where Jude's bed is and let my eyes adjust to the darkness, I saw Jude, laying on his back with Tahiri laying halfway on him, her leg slung over his stomach. I tapped on Jude's shoulder and tried to wake him to see if he wanted to get out from under his sister, but he didn't budge. They both looked so peaceful and serene, which made me stop and realize what I was doing. I was being vindictive just for the "winning" aspect of it. In that moment, I stood and stared down at my children, looking angelic when they usually look downright mischievous. The most affection I usually see is the occasional hug when they bump into each other in the hallway, but then I thought to myself that one of the first thing Tahiri says when walking in the room is "Where's Jude?" and it's "Where's Tahiri" for Jude.

I tucked myself in last night, thinking of how great I truly have it. I have a wonderful man who is sometimes too busy to notice me, but is willing to get up to make me strawberry almond milk and grab my peanuts from the kitchen, along with a bowl for the shells. He makes me laugh with his impressions and dirty talk, and he comforts me when I feel fat, and like a failure. My kids are two beautiful, intelligent, curious little people that dish out high fives and kisses on a regular basis, and bring home smiles and crafts they have constructed. They run toward me screaming "Mama" when they see me and who could ask for anything better? I know sometimes I'm needy and want extra attention, and sometimes it takes the perfect picture of my wild children cuddling to make me realize how good I have it.