We're All Damaged

Monday, August 31, 2009

Master Bedroom


Every night now at about 9:30, my wife goes to sleep. When I say “goes to sleep,” you probably imagine someone brushing their teeth and washing their face and climbing comfortably into bed. With pregnant girls though, it’s much more sudden than that.

Last night she was in the middle of talking. There she was, stringing together a coherent thought, something about the show Mad Men, I believe, when suddenly she stopped midsentence, swayed a bit, and then collapsed onto the floor in a sighing heap. Sometimes, just to be on the safe side, I make her wear a bike helmet around the house. Eventually, after a series of gentle shakes and pokes, I was able to guide her up to bed.

Her new sleeping schedule has created a problem for me. I am not pregnant, nor am I a toddler, and so 9:30 is too early for me to call it a night. This, however, is not the case for our dog. Other than eating and sticking his head in our garbage cans, going to bed is his favorite thing to do. Consequently, each night around midnight, when I’m ready for bed, I find a 75-pound yellow lab curled up in my spot. Often, for comic effect, he’s resting his head on my pillow.

“Dude,” I whisper, shaking him. “Move over.”

Our dog is at an age now where he understands that I’m probably never going to beat him. I’m never going to kick him out onto the streets of downtown Baltimore or chain him to a cinder block in the back yard or withhold his gourmet, vitamin-enriched dog food. We both know that I don’t have the stomach to do any of those things, and so he’s perfectly happy to completely ignore even my most basic commands.

“Seriously. Move over. Please.”

This usually goes on for about fifteen minutes.

Last night, as I squeezed in next to him across my allotted nine inches of mattress, my dog lifted his head, just barely, and looked at me. Like all dogs, he’s able to communicate with his eyes. “She loved me first, you know,” he said, smiling. “You’re just some guy she met at a Super Bowl party.”

And then he went back to sleep.

1 comment:

  1. LOL!! Eloquently written as usual.

    Poor you- not only do you get the stink eye at the doctor's office but you have to contend with playing second fiddle to an animal that likes to eat its own poop. I's so unfair...

    My husband and I have a Boston Terrier that likes to sleep in our bed but DAMN can that tiny little dog ever S.N.O.R.E??!! I'm lucky if I get a couple of hours in on the nights where my husband feels sorry for her. I might just add, this is my 6ft tall, HUGE husband that makes baby faces and even has a special voice he puts on when dealing with that dog- "his little pwincess" he calls her. It's a sight to behold I can tell you. But she IS cute and I do love her. And it's probably a good thing he doesn't have a special voice for me because it would make dinner parties a humiliating experience.

    Sounds like you're being well prepared for Fatherhood- those lovable little tykes will take up ALL the attention I can tell you!!

    Stay strong!!
    ~Nate.

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