Exhausted from two weeks of being sick and waking up with baby, I took a night for myself in the spare bedroom, letting Flathead deal with Sigourney’s all night party. (Flathead is my BFF, tis true.)
So I set myself up in the bedroom across from Erma’s with: a glass of water, my Nook, ye olde hard copy book from the library (Gods of Gotham is what I was reading), all my pillows, several layers of blankets and quilts, and a sleepy head.
But I couldn’t fall asleep.
I played Words with Friends. (I’m sillyliss there, by the way, hinthint.)
I read the digital version of Reader’s Digest (confession: mostly just the anecdotes).
I tried to name all of the presidents of the United States. I counted 47 of them and wondered which three I was missing. Then I wondered which three weren’t really presidents. Then I wondered if I was ever going to fall asleep.
It was too quiet. There was no baby crying. There was no white noise. The spare room was all weird and different than the master bedroom.
I knew what I had to do. I had to read a real, hard copy book. The book that I was so into that I couldn’t put it down during the day, but too scary for nighttime. I had to break open Gods of Gotham and find out what happened next.
Ten minutes later, I was sure the man in the black hood, the killer of kinchin-mabs, was about to bust down my door and tear me open. I was positive. What was that noise? What about that noise? I think it’s footsteps…
Then came the thunderstorm. Distant thunder is just fine with me. I even find it calming when I’m trying to sleep. But booming thunderclaps and house-rocking lightning jolts stave off any hopes of a near-future of peaceful slumber.
I got out of bed and crept across the hall. Erma was fast asleep. But would she sleep through a night squall? I watched. I waited. I laid down on the floor. With my pillow and blankets. Just in case.
Flathead was brewing our morning caffeine injection. I told him how my night had gone.
“I had to sleep on Erma’s floor, in case she woke up and was scared of the storm,” I explained, with a touch of pride and martyrdom.
“Really,” he said as he dumped my faux-sugar into a mug of mud, “or were you sleeping on her floor so she could comfort you?”
I hate it when he sees through me.
Like when I take Erma to the frozen yogurt shop because *she* has a craving. Or I buy the kids toys I always wished I had as a child, and then, well, guess I have to play with them, too — show them the ropes and all that. Taking a 2 mph bike ride on a yellow cruiser covered in stickers is totally lame alone, but if I have to ride with the family, well, then, I just HAVE to. I’m sure you understand.
Tonight I’m starting another Lyndsay Faye book. This one is about Jack the Ripper. I’m sure it won’t be anywhere near as scary as the stargazer killer of Gods of Gotham. I think it’s a good idea if I start it straightaway, to help me sleep. I’ll stow a pillow and a blanket in Erma’s room, too. Just in case she needs me.