Don’t Hate Me Because My Husband Is Awesome (OR: I’m The Other Woman in My Own Bed)

The girls and I got in from Florida around 7:30 last night. We ate a little supper, read a few books, and I put them to bed. DH, as I might have mentioned, didn’t go on our little trip as he was out west for work. He got in last night, too, a few hours behind us.

While waiting for hubby to get home, I fell asleep with the girls in their bed (which they have just started sleeping in, as opposed to our big family bed), so I didn’t hear my sweetheart come in the house. He was probably home for a half hour before my mommy-radar kicked in. I went in to our bedroom to say hello. He was just getting out of the shower. He had wanted to come in and hug the girls, who he hasn’t seen for a week, but then he didn’t want to wake them up. They are notoriously bad sleepers (my fault my fault), so this was a really a dilemma. How sweet is that?

Instead, we sat down on the bed and talked about our trips and all the other things married couples talk about when they haven’t seen each other for a week (bills, the broken dryer, whether or not to paint the deck come spring, what would the weather be like in the morning, etcetera). But I could tell he felt pretty down about not getting face time with the daughters.

After a nice chat, we settled down under the covers. This, as some of you might agree, is the time I do my best most prolific thinking. Just before falling asleep, when the house is dark and quiet and my body is drained of any energy whatsoever, my brain finally decides to spring into action and check off the forgotten PostIt® notes of things the now-exhausted body was supposed to do that day. Clean up the cat poop. Run the dishwasher. Mail a letter. Take out the trash. Just when I’m trying to sleep, this infinite List of Things I Should Have Done Before Going To Bed starts running through my mind like the news ticker on CNN.

Last night, the ticker scrolled to “Have Older Daughter Go Potty Before Bed”.

Urgh. That one should probably not be ignored. I rolled over and mentioned it to DH, who is MUCH better at the potty-going-in-the-middle-of-the-night thing than I. When Mom takes her to the potty out of a deep slumber, you’d think I tried to yank out a tooth or amputate a toe. With Dad, there’s hardly a murmur. So he jumped out of bed, as well as a groggy husband who has just traveled across a large country twice in three days can, and helped S3.5 do her business. Then he gently tucked her back into bed, and came back to snuggle in with me. He was obviously happy at getting to see her, even if she was passed out on the potty. I could tell he was hoping for more than that, though.

A minute later, S3.5 whimpered in the other room.

S3.5 usually falls back to sleep on her own, but if the whimpering starts, there’s a good chance it can escalate into crying. And if crying happens, there’s a very good chance that O2 will wake up. And if O2 wakes up, there’s NO chance that they will both go back to sleep without a lot of work (read: a long time). I ran into the other room to get S.

We came back into the master bedroom and I plonked S3.5 down next to her daddy. She was still mostly asleep, and she snuggled up into his arm and was back in dreamland before I even got my feet warm. Daddy had a huge grin on his sleepy face. I was now the other woman in my own bed. But I didn’t mind.

The only problem now was that O2 was sleeping alone. In our house, people rarely sleep alone. If they do, it’s by accident or weird twists of fate, like falling asleep at the computer (DH) or underneath a pile of yarn (moi-self). And a few minutes after S3.5 started snoring, DH got up. He drank some water, coughed a few times in the bathroom (so as not to wake up everyone else), and then I heard him slip into the girls’ creaky bed with O2. I don’t remember much after that.

This morning, after the alarm jolted both of the grown-ups in our house awake, I asked DH why he’d gone and slept with O. I sort of knew, but I wanted to hear him say it.

“Because she was sleeping by herself,” he answered.

Yeah.  He really is that awesome.


3 thoughts on “Don’t Hate Me Because My Husband Is Awesome (OR: I’m The Other Woman in My Own Bed)

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