Co-sleeping, LoveSacs and Something to Remember

Our sleeping arrangements are, to say the least, interesting. We are a pseudo-cosleeping family or at least try to be. The problem lies in our bedding.

For starters and one of the reasons we began to cosleep after years of not lies in the fact that Z does not like his new bed.

“It’s not comfortable. The springs are broken.”

I think he’s confusing this with his old bed which was actually framed with cardboard, a couple of two-by-fours and a well-stapled piece of padding. But his new bed is practically state-of-the-art and doesn’t actually contain springs (I’m not really sure what it does contain as I’ve decided not to look since the last time I went to find that out, I found cardboard) and is newer than our bed. Our bed is actually years older than our son. Our bed is older than our relationship.

Our bed was passed down to me from who can only be called my G-dmother, Melody. Melody had passed this bed down to my now sister, Carley, and Carley had traded it with me for my previous bed which I had inherited from my mom when she remarried and decided it bad juju to have the same old bed. Melody had passed this bed down when she died…in it. In the bed. And no, that fact doesn’t bother me. Partially because Melody was such a beautiful soul and her passing on in this bed is kinda like a blessing. (Also, part of the reason it doesn’t bother me is that although she may have died on what is now my bed frame and boxspring, I do believe I switched the mattress itself with my sister’s mattress. Which could account for my sister’s frightening ghostly experiences.)

The other dilemma in our cosleeping experience is space. Our bed, much to my husband regret, is only a queen-size bed. I’m not sure what it is about a man needing a bed big enough to host the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders – or maybe I do – but the size of this bed shouldn’t be a problem, except for the fact of who sleeps on the left side of this bed.

That’s right. Justin is the culprit. Justin actually takes up more than the left side of this bed. Justin takes up two-thirds of this bed at best, and although I have threatened to take a black magic marker to show him exactly which half is his and how often he actually ventures into what should be my own blissful territory, I instead spend most nights curled up in the fetal position close to my edge and pray to the heavens I don’t fall off.

This is mostly a protective strategy. You see, I have a theory that in a previous life Justin was a African warrior dancer and when he sleeps his soul relives these Abgekor memories during the night. What I mean to say is that the man twists, turns, jabs, flails, arches and moves like no other (ironically something he cannot do while awake).

I have been elbowed in the eye socket, back handed in the teeth, kicked in the shin, slapped in the nose, and jabbed in the ribs more times than a UFC champion. And let me tell you, there is nothing quite like waking in the dead of night to a 180 lb man who has rolled on top of you and is snoring in your ear. The man has no cognitivity while sleeping.

So you can see the dilemna with cosleeping. On occasion, Z has ventured to the sliver of space left between me and the end of the mattress; sometimes he tries for the foot of the bed and in a moment of braveness he may just climb up between us. But never for long. And what we will do when we have babies is beyond me. Maybe I’ll take up residence in Z’s “broken” brand new mattress. Maybe I should do that now….but I digress.

In our current situation, we’ve found a solution. Our LoveSac. For those who do not know what a LoveSac is, I’ll start by proclaiming it is not a bean bag. In fact, it is so not a bean bag that if you were to wander into the LoveSac store and pick up their little pamphlet that describes the sizes and colors they offer, the very first line you will read definitively states a LoveSac is not a bean bag.

A LoveSac is a NASA-inspired-foam-like filled…well, sack. And it’s nearly the size of a Volkswagen. It’s like a giant, fluffy, orange, micro-suede cloud sitting in the corner of our bedroom. And it is Z’s new(est) bed. Every night, after he tires of Club Penguin, I hear the ruffles of repositioning (and sometimes actual climbing) in a relentless slide of stuffing that constantly threatens to leave him sprawled out on the floor. But it affords him the comfort of sleeping in familial peace without the discomfort of a black eye.

And now I come to the point of my story.

Last night, after I shut off my book light, placed the novel on my nightstand, scooted to the edge of the mattress, curled up in my protective fetal position, and shut my eyes to attempt to fall asleep, it was mere seconds and without warning that I heard a tiny whisper not one inch from my ear,

“Good night, Mama. I love you.”

And then a tiny peck on my cheek, soft tip-toes back to the heap of foam and the rustling of repositioning. Just so beautiful, I had to write it all down before 27 years go by and I forget this precious little moment of my life.