Do you remember the Talking Heads movie True Stories, the one which featured a woman who had decided to spend the rest of her life in bed? Sometimes I think that my children would be much happier living with that woman, or at least more comfortable, because nothing sets them at their ease more than me being flat on my back in bed incapacitated by either sleep or illness. I don’t know what it is–there’s just something about me being vertical that brings out all of their nascent requests for help. I’m not talking about philosophical help, either: answering questions that are, by their very nature, meant to be pondered from beneath the covers. Questions such as: “Why do bad things happen to good people?” (Although, when roused form a sound sleep to answer such a question, my reply is likely to be along the lines of “Because there are no good people–everyone has it coming. Now go away.”) No, I’m talking about being woken up by such burning issues as “Can you fill up my Super Soaker for me?” (To which I’m tempted to reply: “That depends. What, exactly, do you want me to fill it up with?”). Or even “Can you cut this wristband off of me? (That is from a concert I attended 3 days ago, but only now, when you have finally achieved REM sleep, must immediately come off).”
I suppose, in a way, I should be grateful: at least now that my bedroom is the preferred audience chamber, the bathroom has been given a reprieve (there’s nothing like trying to read the new National Geographic in the smallest room in the house only to be interrupted by someone handing you a plate of waffles and a stick of butter and saying, “Can you fix these for me?”). I could even look at this new change in venue as a sign that they are growing up and learning to respect personal boundaries (or at least learning to be grossed out by the sight of their mom on the toilet), if it wasn’t for the fact that a more likely explanation is that they have finally realized that the chances of my burying my head beneath the pillow and shouting, “Yes, yes, fine–whatever you want!” are so much greater in the bedroom than in the bathroom. Still–even if you factor out all those free “please excuse my daughter’s absence” notes–it can’t be all that much fun to keep going back into the lion’s den over and over again. I mean, it’s not like I respond to these intrusions in such a manner as to encourage repetition. Or do I? After all–what do I know?–I’m asleep (or at least trying to be); perhaps what seems to me to be my fiercest growl is, in all actuality, only a pathetic little miaow.
If only there was some way I could check. I know that they have sleep clinics that help people figure out their sleep disorders, but somehow I doubt that my problem would fit within their rubric. And anyway, what would I say to them?
“So, you see, I fall asleep–no, falling asleep is no problem, I don’t need any help with that–and what happens is that after I fall asleep some little person comes into my room and asks me to build them a castle made of popsicle sticks for tomorrow’s report on the Middle Ages. What? No, they’re not imaginary–anyway, what I need for you to do is to watch how I react, and maybe jot down some notes on whether or not the intruder runs from the room in tears, or skips out stifling a giggle and saying, ‘Ok, your turn next.’”
Who am I trying to kid? They’d hang up on me even before I got to the popsicle sticks. I know I sure would–if only I could.