04 August 2012

Night Watch

I love watching my family sleep. I lay here next to my Sweetheart, listening to her peaceful breathing, interrupted by occasional unintelligible murmurs and wonder of what she dreams. Sometimes I even envy her ability to ge to sleep almost instantaneously wherever she closes her eyes. I like that she's such a sound sleeper, though. It means less chance of my chronic insomnia being passed on to the kids.

Thankfully, neither of them seem to share my affliction. I roam through the house some nights just to check in on everyone. The Furball is my companion. He like to sleep in a wide variety of locations throughout his 20 hour sleep cycle, regardless of the beds we buy him, so I invariably stumble over him at least once if I get up. He'll then take up his spot at my heels - after a suitable amount of yawning and stretching and smacking of jowls in protest of me waking him up without so much as a treat in hand to compensate for his lost slumber. But, on the chance that I may wander down to his cookie jar, he makes the rounds with me, sneezing and passing gas like the old man he is.

As we pass the Princess' room, with door faithfully set at "medium" (I have no idea, I just go with it) I peek in to see if I can catch a glimpse of the angel hidden somewhere amidst the pile of blankets, toys, pillows, baby dolls and other detritus from the days activities she's fashioned into her beaver dam-like "sleeping bag" as she calls it. Generally, she's off to one side, spread out like a rag doll thrown from the pile. That child sleeps so hard, there have been many nights I've had to pinch her to satisfy myself she's actually okay. I feel a little guilty when she tells me the next morning about the mosquito dream, but come on, the child won't move for hours. And Daddies are allowed to be paranoid with their first. It's in the rule book.

Little Man is another story. That boy gets a workout while sleeping. He rolls all over the place. He'll prop his feet up in the corner, wedge his head against the crib bars and generally sleep in positions that would hurt an experienced contortionist. I never have to worry about him. But I often watch from the doorway just to see what spectacular feat he managed during the night. Sometimes, I'm pretty sure the Furball is trying to ask me, "Daddy, how'n the wuld he do dat?".

Ah yes, you didn't know that did you? Yes indeed, my dog is a hillbilly. A Yankee hillbilly to boot. Ah why not? I figured, shoot, if I can marry one, I might as well have one for a dog, too. Ooh, Sweetheart's gonna shoot coffee out of her nose when she reads this in the morning. Dad will catch it tomorrow evening and laugh until his eyes water. At least he won't punch me after shooting coffee out of his nose. I wonder if this is what they mean by keeping a marriage interesting.

Okay, the walkabout is done, the Furball is temporarily returning to his bed in protest of me replacing the bath rugs he moved aside so he could sleep on the tile, and Sweetheart is beginning to stir and feel around my side of the bed, so it's time to return to my favorite place in the world and sooth my love back into slumber with a gentle caress.

Good Night, all!