Sleep Therapy

You get used to sleeping alone in a big bed. Manny doesn't count -- I just use his plump, downy torso as an extra pillow. But a person, no matter how much in love you are -- that can be an intrusion.

Last night, there were three of us. My daughter, struggling with a sinus infection and burning up with fever, was sufficiently distraught and filled with self pity to crawl into bed with us last night. Manny and I tend to confine ourselves to what was always "my side" of the bed. It has nothing to do with revulsion; it just ensures easy access to the necessities on my nightstand -- the tissues, the Advil, the lamp and the books for the frequent bouts with insomnia.

With the sudden introduction of a feverish and lanky teenager whose limbs seemed to be everywhere, the balance shifted. Manny popped up and stared blindly in the direction of her coughing, excited for what was obviously a decision on her part to spend more quality time with him. He abandoned his pillow duties and slithered over to the middle, where he could nestle next to her and still be close to me. I was disoriented, suddenly finding myself alone on my side with inanimate pillows that don't breathe and snore in a calming, sleep inducing rhythm, yet very much not alone with my space heater of a daughter just inches away, a toasty leg occasionally kicking me in the ribs.

We all get used to the way things are, even if they are not necessarily what we have hoped for. Most of us don't dream of sleeping alone, without someone to cuddle with or wake up with or poke when we're having a bad dream, but after a period of time flying solo in a king size bed you start to wonder if you could ever share it again. It's liberating to not worry about being disturbed or doing the disturbing; I was acutely aware of this as I banged around in the dark this morning trying to get dressed.

As much as my daughter's arrival in the wee hours of the morning was a disturbance in the force, I did find myself smiling at the thought of having her there. It reminded me of times long ago, when my pudgy faced little girl would wander in, looking for comfort and begging for an invitation to climb in. I often resented the sleep interruption, but I usually gave in, secretly content to have her join us just so we could make her feel safe.

She is no longer terrified of the monsters under her own bed or the demonic creatures in her closet, but it is nice to know she still needs comfort from mom every once in a while. And, I have to admit, despite the excessive heat emanating from her until the Tylenol took hold and despite the occasional kicks and despite the loss of my fat, canine pillow, it was nice to have her there.

My daughter may not know this, but sometimes she's the one providing comfort; she's the one shooing away the monsters.