I hadn’t planned on offering our daughter the middle third of our bed last night, the part that rises higher than the rest like its own plateau, the part that by structure alone defines my husband’s side from mine. But then I hadn’t planned on calming a frightened child from a fevered nightmare, a dream, she said, that kept coming whenever she shut her eyes.
“Dear, Jesus…” I prayed, and I hefted her in bed beside me.
This morning my husband and I squinted around puffs of tired skin to see each other. The double bags under his eyes matched the ones I was hauling around. We shook our heads and muttered, “Not again.”
I’d taken a left arm to the chops and a double knee to the back. He’d been booted in the shoulder blades and then had shoved away wild limbs until his alarm when off before seven.
At which time the two of us left Sleeping Beauty still in the middle and wobbled away from our bed on weak legs.
An hour later our daughter bounced from our bed. “How’d you sleep?” I asked. She raised both arms above her head like she’d indeed been resting a hundred years and said…
“I slept great!”