>Whenever one of those cop shows with stories ripped out of the headlines comes on the TV, I change the channel, as quickly as I can rip the remote out of my husband’s hand. I can’t watch them; they’re way too scary. It takes me weeks to recover from watching just one episode, especially if it’s during a week my husband is traveling out of town.
I run through the house after the kids go to sleep, forcing myself to check closets and empty rooms, peering anxiously at the darkened street, wondering how many soccer mom loving serial killers are hiding in the bushes. When I finally throw myself in bed and hide my head under the illusion of safety of the blanket, my heart thuds. If my husband calls to wish me goodnight and rave about the hotel pool
at his California hotel, I hang up quickly, too terrified to talk longer and hear the line go dead when my foul-breathed rapist cuts our phone line.
A Suburban Mom’s Cheap Thrill
It’s all an act of course, a suburban mom’s cheap thrill, no different than when I terrorized myself with marathon horror nights of Nightmare on Elm Street and Psycho as a teen. When danger looms, the routine of homework, dinner, bath and bed seems richer, bathed with a sentimental glow, the last few moments of simple domesticity before her life was irrevocably changed. The cheap thrills are so much more fun than the real terror I face every night inside my house, in the form of my three sleeping children.
Giant Rag Dolls at Rest
I pass them as I race to bed, after having triple checked the front door lock, and they look so peaceful snuggled up in their beds. I tuck their blankets back around their carelessly strewn limbs, and rearrange their bodies easily, like giant rag dolls at rest. You’d never guess by looking at their innocent faces that in the next few hours, one or more of them will morph into a trained stealth warrior.
Ruthless Covert Operatives
Each of my kids has his own well-honed infiltration strategy to reach their shared goal of my bed. They will do anything to worm their icy little feet under my warm blanket and push me out into the night with a surgical kick to my kidneys. These angelic sleeping children are really ruthless covert operatives who will stop at nothing to reach their objective. They only activate once I’ve gone to sleep for a few hours and reached that deep satisfying stage 2 REM sleep. They seem to know that I’m dreaming of lying on a warm Caribbean beach listening to Ben Affleck confess to a forbidden love for me. Just as Ben touches my cheek, whispering that he knows he can never have me, they strike.
They only rarely strike together. A mission is only truly successful if the parental bed is conquered alone. On the nights that two agents activate simultaneously, or worse, reach the bed only to discover that another agent has already beat them to the destination, their reaction can be ruthless, and highly
dangerous to all present.
The Polite Warrior
Each child has his or her own very unique style. Juliette prepares for her mission as though she were going on a long journey, packing carefully coordinated pink and purple pastel purses with stuffed animal friends. When she appears at my bedside, she wields her manners and her 4-year old cuteness like a weapon. She caresses my face with her soft and oh so smelly lovey softly and asks, “Mommy, may my stuffies and I please come into your bed?” Don’t be fooled by her veneer of civility. A negativeanswer will bring on phase two of her attack plan, ear-splitting screams and a torrent of tears. I’ve learned that it’s much easier to keep things civil, acquiesce with a smile, and welcome her cuddly body and her menagerie into my lair.
Junior Rambo
7-year old Jack prefers a direct Rambo-like approach. He marches in, slamming doors open, still angry about whatever nightmare disturbed his sleep. As the mother and source of all his neuroses, I am unquestionably to blame for his bad dream. He assaults the bed without apologies, treating my sleepingbody as enemy territory to be beaten into submission. Shocked out of my illicit date with Ben, I am
too stunned to do anything other than surrender to his barked orders to “Move over!” Jack’s invasions usually leave me with PTSD.
the Diva Tween
My toughest night attacks come from 9-year old Bella. Fortunately, her nocturnal visits are a much rarer occurrence. Groggy with sleep, I am no match for her tween attitude. She shakes me awake and disarms me with diva requests. “Mom! I am just so hot and uncomfortable! Please get up and change my sheets, wash my favorite pjs, and get me some ice cold water.” It’s all delivered with a cool nonchalance, a toss of the hair, and often a bonus eye roll, as if having to even utter these demands is beneath her, because I should have guessed her needs and already attended to them. Facing that storm of attitude, all I can do is move over to the cold side of the bed, so that Bella can sigh and get in my warm nest condescendingly, as though she were doing me a favor.
Maybe I should start watching CSI and face my fear that they’ll feature a serial killer who targets moms too lazy to hit the gym. Then I can fall asleep on the couch and finally spend an entire uninterrupted night. My sleeping agents will never find me in the den, will they?
I submitted this piece last night for my audition for the Listen to your Mother Show. If I make it, I’ll be performing it live on May 7 in front of a large audience, giving power to my words by sharing it with others. Now that the chaos of moving is beginning to recede, I’m trying to pick up the pen and write more. It feels great to return to the blank page. I had forgotten how much it centers me and stills my demons.
Update – did not get selected for the show, better luck next year. In the meantime, still feeling the warm glow of picking up the pen again.