Till death do us Part. (Hopefully)
It’s three in the morning.
I twist. I turn. I count sheep. I try to think pleasant, soothing thoughts, of waterfalls and bubbling brookes. I take deep breaths.
I am wide awake.
Next to me, lies the noisiest sleeper in the world. Blissfully asleep, cheerfully unaware of my anguish and sheer misery.
Snoring his lungs out.
He grunts loudly, lifts his entire body in the air and then slams it back on the bed. I am petrified. Exorcist revisited? I tremble under my end of the blanket.
Ladies and gentlemen. Meet my husband: heart of my heart. Soul of my soul. For better or for worse. In sickness and in health. Till death do us part… and the rest of that jazz. I groan. That marriage certificate hath doomed me for all eternity.
He mumbles something that vaguely sounds like : “I’ll get you… I’ll get you…”
Is he addressing me? The mumble sounds suspiciously like a threat. I cower into the deep recesses of the bedsheets.
I tentatively try to pull some of the blanket to my side. Because not only is he a master snorer, he is also a champion blanket stealer.
He sits straight up, stiff as a bolt, as soon as he feels the tug. I let out a muted scream. He looks around with glassy eyes. A scene from Poltergeist, of that I am certain! And says, quite coherently, this time, “I’ll just leave, I’ll just go away. OK?”
“OK,” I say. “When?”
He flops back on the bed and resumes his godawful, louder than the wrath of hell, snores.
“Get away,” I say and give him an unfriendly (read: pissed off) shove. Now don’t get me wrong, not that I don’t love his nightly cacophony, but hey, a person’s gotta sleep. Besides, after eight years of silent suffering (at my end) a ‘gentle’ shove now and then won’t hurt him.
He budges obligingly. Albeit a one hundredth of a centimeter, but budge he does.
And resumes his horrendous racket.
I cuss under my breath. And shift sides. Next to me he continues his growls and snorts. By five in the morning I am asleep, only to be woken up by my loving sons at 6:30. That’s a.m.
“I never,” objects the father of my children, the love of my life, upon confrontation the next morning. “Wasn’t me. Was the kids.”
“Yes because a five year old and a two year old are indeed capable of such din,” I say sulkily. I haven’t slept. I am ready to cheerfully pound everyone’s heads into the ground.
“Consider yourself blessed,” says my surprising husband, shoveling egg down his throat. “Most women would kill for such amazing, nocturnal music.”
“Blessed? Yes, yes, indeed it is a blessing. I am feeling very blessed,” I growl. “I might kill you tonight, that’s how blessed I am feeling.”
“I guess I’ll have to keep my phone handy. To call 911, you know, in case you are in a murderous sort of mood,” he jokes, bright and cheerful of eye. And why not? A full night of sleep he’s had. I watch him shoveling his eggs, watching the news, whistling while he drinks his tea. And I mutter an obscenity under my breath.
“What’s that, my love?” he says turning a blind eye toward me.
I repeat the obscenity.
“Now now,” he wags his fork at me, all holier than thou. “Manners.”
I could dunk his head in the hot tea that he’s drinking and cheer when he squeals.
The day passes, with me in my usual happy, cheery, sunshine mood. I snap at the cashier at Walmart. I growl at the ladies at my son’s bus stop. I yell and howl at my boys like a woman possessed. They look at me in wonder, tittering and giggling at my plight. I plod and plough my way through the day, determined to get a good night’s sleep tonight.
Night falls. Nightly chores done. Boys asleep in their room. My bed calls out to me invitingly. Lovingly. I long to leap into it. Fold myself amidst its warm embrace.
I crawl into it, telling myself that tonight is the night. A night of peace. Of quiet. Of rest. I shut my eyes. Ready to be whisked away into the unknown, the great chasm of rest, of silence, of…..
And then the snores start again.