I sleep in utter and complete chaos. Every morning I wake up drenched with sweat, slightly claustrophobic, and curled into an impossibly small ball on my California King sized bed wedged in between my husband on my left, my eight year old son on the right and our one-hundred-thirty pound rescue dog who was thirty-five pounds when we rescued him (we thought he was done growing and a mutt. Turns out we were wrong on both counts as he’s an Anatolian Shepherd and will grow to between 110-150 pounds. How you like them apples?)
I hate it. And I love it. And it is all completely my own fault.
My fourteen-year-old dog prefers his space. Clearly he possesses the wisdom that comes with age. And , you know, at fourteen there’s not a whole lot of jumping going on. My six-year-old son likes his sleep and likes his space. Put a win in the “raised a well-adjusted child” box!
If any of my friends who knew me in my twenties “before children” are reading this they experiencing complete and utter confusion right now. As I’m sure more than one of them can recall stumbling home late night from the bars and crashing at whoever’s apartment was closest which often required piling several of us onto a futon to sleep. No matter how “over served I was” I always declared that I would not sleep “in the middle”. And on one memorable occasion when I was in fact stuck in the middle I sat bolt upright from a dead sleep and declared in a loud voice “I hate the middle!”
So why do I put up with the cramped quarters, night sweats, and a seemingly inexhaustible amount of dog hair? Because I know it’s not going to last. Because every time my eight-year-old climbs into bed with me I mentally am ticking off the minutes until he turns that corner and I become the lamest person on the planet to him. I’ve also heard by the time he realizes I’m not an idiot he’s out finding his own way in the world and then I’ve lost him forever. Okay, maybe not “lost him” but certainly cuddle time is over.
And our dog is riding my son’s coattails. Because my sons loves all one-hundred-thirty pounds of that beast of a dog. And that moose disguised as a dog lets my sons ride him, pull out the extra skin from his jowls so he looks like a flying squirrel, and barks like he’s going to rip off your face if you mess with either of them. So basically he’s me but furry and walking on four legs.
And someday, even my ginormous lion-like dog will be fourteen and too old to jump on the bed anymore. I’m mentally counting that down as well.
So for now I embrace then craziness and chaos. Because being in the middle is exactly where I want to be after all.
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