Please don’t wake me, no don’t shake me
Leave me where I am, I’m only sleeping.
– John Lennon
Here’s the scene: You’re sleeping. It’s been a bit of a rough night. You’d gone to bed, then got woken up first when your wife came to bed after you. Then again when The Boy flicked on the hall light on his twenty-four inch path from the bedroom to the bathroom.
Then again when your University student daughter calls at a time that’s appropriate for an eighteen-year-old student but not necessarily for a pushing-fifty early-bird (definitely not a night owl) father.
“Did you call me earlier?” she says.
“Not that I know of,” I mumble.
“I’m waking you up,” she states.
“Kinda,” I say, trying to be nice, not realizing until later that kinda being woken up is like kinda getting someone pregnant. To paraphrase Yoda, “Wake or wake not, there is no kinda.”
And then there’s the snoring in the night, but we won’t go there.
Finally, you fall into a restful slumber and the night passes peacefully.
Then it happens.
You lay in bed, soundly sleeping. Unsuspecting.
Then, out of nowhere, with literally no warning, you get a fairly solid fist to the ribs, followed microseconds later with “Don’t make me hit you!” followed with a final shot to the shoulder.
Okay, well, I wish it was you. Well, not really, I just wish it wasn’t me. But it was.
I immediately sat up, yelled, “Jesus Christ!” And the Wife? Yeah, she just calmly rolled over and started up the snore machine again.
Yeah, she’d totally done this thing in her sleep. I looked over at the alarm clock. 6:13 am. Damn. She’d done it again.
In the past, always between 6:00 and 6:30, she’s yelled, “SHUT THE F*CK UP!” and also one that sounded something like a whale breaching or something. The best I can reproduce it is, “Bah-ROOOOOOOOOO! OOOOOoooooOOOO! Bah-ROOOOOOOOooo!”
Apparently that was her calling me. I don’t think her mouth woke up at the same speed as the rest of her head.
There’s been others as well, but we’ve managed to avoid the GBH event (Grievous Bodily Harm) up to now.
After this particular percussive GBH incident, I decided I might as well get up (so as not to risk more punches) and when I got out to the hallway, even the Boy said, “You gotta do something about mom.”
“You heard that?” I said.
“Yeah, scared the crap outta me,” he says.
“You shoulda been me. She punched me. Twice.”
“I know. I heard the smacks.”
Obviously I need to start getting up at 5:59 am. Or wear some padding to bed.
Yup. Marriage. Live the adventure.