Three Little Monkeys Sleeping in My Bed

On weekdays, I usually leave the house at 6:30 am.  I am sharing this infomration so that you can get the full effect of just how late I was yesterday.  I stayed in bed until 6:12 am, snuggled with my three little monkeys, blankets pulled up over my head.

When I finally emerged from my fuzzy green cocoon, my hair was a fright and I didn't even care.  I had slept too late to have time for a shower, I barely had time to change out of the uniform of sweats that I have taken to wearing around the house.  There was no makeup, no thought involved in getting myself "ready" for work.

It has been like this more and more as of late.  I don't know who exactly to blame but I am irrationally sure it is my husbands fault.

It has been weeks since we have had our bed to ourselves.  Maybe even months.  Some nights the middle monkey will creep in and gingerly tap me on the arm over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over until I finally reach out, grab him and pull him securely into the bed.  Once he is nestled in the crook of my arm he will doze peacefully until the latest possible moment of the morning rush.  He is the best little sleeper. 

I, on the other hand, am not. 
Some nights the creeper is a little princess girl with golden curls.  She will walk quite purposefully into the room with all of her "babies" in tow.  She will hurl each item into the bed and then hoist herself up and over my lump of a body and snuggle herself in between her father and me.  She too is a good sleeper but again, as she crawls over me to secure her spot in our bed, her bony little knees dig into my back, arms and face.  Following this invasion of my sleeping space, I am usually awakened but then abandoned, left alone with my thoughts while she slumbers peacefully beside me.

My third waker-upper is recently my favorite one to see at my bedside.  When he is up, he is up.  there is no such thing as "going back to sleep."  He is quite entertaining and has become a good friend of mine in the bewitching hours.  He has a great sense of humor and is perfectly content to lean against me on the living room sofa while I watch DVR'd episodes of The Daily Show.  Of course he doesn't fully understand the content that is discussed in the show, thankfully, but is able to grasp the nuance and sarcasm of Jon Stewart's comedic timing. 

The child can talk a blue streak and I generally don't have "time" to listen to him ramble, but at 3 A.M. I find myself with nothing but time.  We talk about school and wrestling.  He tells me about his friends and their families.  He asks me about divorce and why some parents live in different houses.  We cover death and Heaven.  We talk Santa and the Toothfairy.  He shares with me some ideas he has for streamlining the discipline procedure in our house, rules he thinks would be effective for his sister and brother. 

He is so much like me.  A creative worry wart, a dramatic insomniac. Ultra-sensitive and prone to anxiety.  He enjoys schedules, routines, and lists.  But like me he is also a creative spirit.  He loves to draw and color, creating millions of fabulous items of artwork, displayed all around his room.  He wants desperately to read and when he does finally "get it" I am sure he will have his nose in a book every spare moment.  He is compassionate and caring, he has a kind soul. 

He is my midnight monkey.