“Wake up!” I half hissed/yelled at Tracey.
When I’d woken moments earlier I’d been facing her but quickly rolled to face the window.
The sun was up, so we were probably only half an hour ahead of when we’d be dragging the kids out of their rooms for school anyway. A small silver lining which only occurred to me hours later when I sat down to write this post.
“Wha…?” murmered Tracey. “Wha…? Why are you…waking…me up?”
Even without having her face in front of me I knew she hadn’t opened her eyes yet. Despite the sleepy, patchy, soft voiced questions I also knew she was getting shirty with me for waking her.
Tough.
“You’re having a bad dream,” I explained to her through gritted teeth and a sleep apnea mask.
“Wha…?”
I repeated myself. By now I’d managed to free a hand and take my mask off so she heard me this time.
Sleep talking and walking is a family curse. Tracey’s Mum’s sung at imaginary birds out of her bedroom window and her grandfather once got out of bed and went for a drive.
Only a couple of days ago one of our kids appeared at the end of our bed complaining they’d be stuck here for six years now the transporter was broken.
“No,” Tracey said. “I don’t think I was.” She was silent so long I figured she’d gone back to sleep. I took this time to think uncharitable thoughts at her. “I was dreaming I was running up stairs,” she suddenly continued. “Why? What did I say?”
Oh, if only.
Still, at least I knew then why I’d been woken with a knee to the fucking nuts.
Big Family Little Income
raising a family on little more than laughs
