A little over a week ago, my twelve-year-old son and my hubby went on a Father’s and Son’s Camp Out. That left us four girls here at home. We went to a restaurant and watched a movie that the boys would never have watched. (Monster High, anyone?) Then, it was time for bed.
Of course the girls talked me into letting them all have a sleepover in my room. Somehow, it morphed into all being in my bed. Because, after all, how could I choose just one? So, we finally arranged everyone, with my six-year-old at the bottom, sleeping crosswise. This left one toddler in the middle and one nine-year-old at the top. They couldn’t take up more room than my husband, right?
In the beginning of the night, they didn’t. Once we finally got an overly hyper toddler to go to sleep, I thought I had it made. But, all too soon, I found myself sleeping in a smaller and smaller space. I usually sleep in the fetal position, but I didn’t have enough room to keep my knees on the bed. I couldn’t stretch my legs out, either, because my six-year-old’s head was where my feet would be. Every attempt to rearrange the two-year-old was met with a severe whack to my head. Not wanting a black eye the next day, I finally gave up on that.
I ended up with my pillow and head on the bedside table next to my side of the bed. My knees were hanging in space. My three sleeping beauties snored on. They looked like this when I finally gave up and got out of bed.
If the boys go on another overnighter together, I may still let the girls sleep in my room. On the floor. In sleeping bags. While I luxuriate in more room than I know what to do with.