Somnambulist

Do you want to sleep with me?

Answer carefully. Consider how much entertainment you like in the bedroom. Consider how much you like your sleep.

You see, I am a somnambulist. And a somniloquist. With me, you get the whole package.

Our story begins in 1979, when I was five years old. My parents had landed upon an inventive "babysitter." Before going to the neighbor's house for a card game, they would put me and my younger brother in their bed. Using their bedside phone, my parents would call those very same neighbors.

The phone would stay off the hook, lovingly laid next to the bed. My parents would then head to the neighbor's house. Every so often, someone would pick up the phone and listen for signs of pediatric distress. Like crying. Crying would be a definite indication to head back home.

At five years old, I was tasked with heading to the neighbor's or calling through the phone if there was an emergency.

You likely did not know me then. I was major league responsible at five. Well, at two. I truly wish for you to be blessed with the awesome kid I was. Keep reading. You'll see.

I know, I know. Today, my parents' behavior is criminal. But in 1979 it was brilliant and cheap. And date night must have worked because my sister came along later that year.

Unfortunately, what also came that year was the death of two grandfathers and a sister born with bacteria in her blood. The stress was too much for my dad. He ruptured a gastric ulcer and landed in the ICU.

When my dad went south, I did too. It's how I show my solidarity.

I began sleepwalking.

I'm not talking about your pedestrian wandering of the halls or winding up in someone else's bed. No. I left the house entirely.

In my stupor, I believed my dad was not in the hospital but playing cards with the neighbors.

Across the street from my house.

Several times, the neighbors called my mother to say I was asleep in their living room. In the middle of the night.

It was my dad's good fortune to recover from the ulcer and return home so he could, in short order, install a lock that would stymie a five year old sleepwalker.

See what I mean? Awesome kid. Right here.

I'm not as interesting as an adult, but I'm still pretty close. Husband has woken up with me hovering above him - Sigourney Weaver to his Bill Murray - yelling for all I'm worth. So that's how it is. Things of that nature. I've also been known to hit. Laugh. Carry on a conversation.

But I don't snore. And do not believe anyone who tells you differently.

Cute father-daughter moment or is he just

keeping me from waking the

neighbors?

Thank God the sleepwalking gene is dominant.

I have intercepted Daughter searching the house for me - and then enlisting me to aid in her search. And for 15 terrifying minutes two years ago we could not locate Son anywhere in the house - at nine o'clock at night. We finally found him in our bed. This boy - who does nothing neat or tidy in any aspect of his life - had turned back our covers with military precision and nestled behind a jumble of pillows. He never budged when we moved him back to his bed.

Perhaps the finest hour of my somnambulistic progeny was perpetrated by Son. Husband and I were, well, voulez-vous coucher avec each other. Mid-copulation, I noticed two bony white knees next to my head. A quick limb count indicated these knees did not belong to me or Husband. And since we weren't in Vegas, they didn't belong to anyone else invited to the party. Husband, oblivious to our snoozing interloper, continued with his happy little mission to reach Shangri-La.

Listen, there's just no good way to tell a man he's got to quit his trip on the Happy Highway for a detour to Kiddie City, am I right?

Husband called Son's name, once he was aware of his presence.

Matter of factly, Son uttered, "Goodnight," and plopped face first into my pillow, snoring like a drunken frat boy.

My overarching concern the next day was that son had seen - or, God, heard - something that no child should ever witness from their parents. Gently, I queried him. Did he remember getting into bed with Mommy last night?

Negative. Cue the dramatic wiping of sweat from my forehead.

I texted Husband. Good news. Son recalls none of it.

Too bad, Husband texted back. If he saw what I do to his mother, maybe he'd stay in his own room.

Husband maintains that his own demise will be at our sleepwalking hands. Which is just crazy because that dude still sleeps with the lights off and closet door open. The In The Dark Monster or Closet Monster will get him long before any of us become homicidal in our sleep.

We have agreed to disagree on that point.

Maybe we should sleep on it.