I hate to sleep alone. It's because I'm such a scaredy cat but I really have a tough time not thinking disturbing thoughts before I drift off to sleep. My solution, until recently was to fall into a beer-induced coma. And though my husband seems to have programmed his body to automatically do it even without the alcohol, I am just not that talented.
Now before I get started, it should be noted that my husband and I sleep in separate bedrooms because I can't get to sleep with his snoring. Given a choice of obstacles that lie between me and slumberland, the imaginary monster I fear waiting outside my door seems easier to tackle than the constant earthquake my husband creates through his chest.
And so, last night when I decided to hit the hay early, I was forced to leave my bedroom door wide open because the breeze from the open windows kept fucking with it if I left it partially open. It would creeeep the door open then....BAM! It would shut. It was nerve racking to say the least.
My pet peeve about leaving the door wide open is the view it shows of the stairway. I always imagined if there were a ghost, it would be of a malicious little girl in a long white nightgown floating up and gliding in my door and tickling me with cold fingers. I admit it sounds stupid but it made me anxious enough to have locked my eyes on the door...waiting.
As I finally drifted off to sleep, my closing eyes caught a flash of white charge through and jump on my bed. I practically shit myself. But it turned out to be my three-year-old in his white McQueen pajamas.
With the momentum of running down the hallway, he propelled himself like a gymnast executing a vaulting horse from the foot of my bed and landed on my pillow. He curled up into a little ball, stole my covers and then kicked my head because, well...it was in the way.
As he shoved his night-diapered butt in the air, I thought of all those touching scenes where the kid quietly climbs into bed or asks the parents permission to enter and everyone falls asleep happy as a clam. Nope. Not my rude little bed invader. By comparison, the ghost of the malicious little girl might not be as bad.