23. October 2010 07:29
The sun always shines on someone whose child “sleeps through the night.” As parents, we often invoke this phrase while talking with other young parents, even though the boy could have been up eight times the night before. Everyone wants a child who “sleeps through the night” even if “the night” means from 2 a.m. to 4 a.m. Yep, that was the night and he slept right through it.
Anyway, even if your child actually DOES sleep until morning, you are always “on call.” Sure, you fall asleep but your brain is still expecting to hear something so it doesn’t let your body get sleeping TOO deeply. So when you can convince your brain that everything is OK (or that your wife will get up), you need to take advantage of your time and snooze.
Last Thursday was such a night. My wife wasn’t working the next day, so I knew that she was “on call” for the baby. I climbed into bed and rolled around a couple of times to get comfortable. (I had a dog once who did the same. This was no surprise.) My wife snuggled close and laid her head on my arm. This basically meant that I had to get comfortable without moving anymore, because there was no moving her.
I started to relax and just as I was about to meet Mr. Sandman, I was assaulted by Mr. Nose-Whistle. I don’t know if you have ever had the misfortune of meeting this dastardly villain, but he is my arch-nemesis. Instead of making your eyelids heavy, he makes your nose sound like a dime-store flute: small, irritating and unstoppable. You must understand how frustrating this can be.
The room is still and dark. As things get settled, our breathing grows deeper. Something is wrong, though. Instead of inhale/exhale, I hear Fwee-Fwee-Fwee-Fwee. Mr. Nose-Whistle has struck again. But, now the problem is that I can’t move. If I could move, I could blow or pick or fill my passages with Vap-O-Rub, but I can’t. So I whistle. And whistle.
My wife wakes up and asks me if I’m calling the dog. We don’t have a dog. I bury my head in the pillow and this stifles the noise. However, it also reduces the oxygen to my brain. Sensing danger, I turn my face and press my nose against her ear. Now we’ve gone from whistle to French Horn and my wife thinks I’m goofing around. (Me?)
Now I’ve got to become a mouth-breather in order for BOTH of us to get to sleep. Luckily, even Mr. Nose-Whistle gets tired and I finally get some shut-eye, none the worse for wear. Even as I doze, I contemplate the value (or possibility)of shaving one’s nasal passage.