Last night I woke up to a whisper in my ear, "Don't Move." After a small coronary, I turn my head to the right to see Brian sitting up next to me in an awkward position. The blood rushes through to my fingertips and I whisper back, "What is it?!"
He says in a deep sleepy voice, "I caught a wasp." And I look down to see that his hands are cupped and holding the wasp down against the bed. Then Brian says, "I can't find anything to kill it with." So I jump out of bed to get a shoe when Brian changes his mind. "Oh wait a minute. I think I'm dreaming." (thoughtful pause) "Yes. I'm dreaming." And he lays down and drifts back to peaceful sleep.
It's on nights like these as I stare at the ceiling vacillating between chuckling and fuming with anger at the fact that I can't sleep longer than one hour intervals between two wakeful children and Brian snoring or waking me to help him kill imaginary bugs, or waking me to wave my arm around while frantically trying to convince me that it's the baby and I'm smashing it, or punching me in the face because he's on a mission with Jackie Chan that I have to remind myself of a bit of encouragement Brian told me years ago: I can sleep when I die.