This week, however, I had to share my bed with two small people and, I have to say, my sanctuary became less than enticing. My youngest, a human by day, becomes a kangaroo by night. Her gentle, angelic-looking sleep is punctuated by violent random leg jabs, most of which land squarely in general kidney-area. My son - whom I have now come to call, "The Heater" - marks his nights with loud, spontaneous conversations with whomever will listen. These "chats" take place mostly in the wee hours of the morning and are characterized by the intense peril that envelops both the teller and his audience. Any attempt to wake him up, I should say, will result in utter confusion and discombobulation with general haughtiness and quiet, smoldering rebuke following quickly on its heels.
So how do I get around this in the future, you might ask? Do I tell them that they can't sleep with me when their father goes away? Not an option because it will be met by tears. Do I invent some flatulence problem that I know would dissuade them from the boudoir? No. Farting and kids go hand in hand.
No, I will do the only thing that works: I will pay them.