I woke up around 3:30 this morning with an urgent need to pee. On my way back to bed, in my incredibly groggy state, I noticed what appeared to be Sarah, out of the covers, and in some sort of crouched position at the head of the bed. Almost but not quite groggy enough to let something this bewildering stand as fact, I took a closer look and realized that I was actually staring at a pillow.
But if that was a pillow, why wasn’t Sarah’s head on it? A few more seconds of thinking—a task far down on my brain’s list of Favorite Things To Do At 3:30 A.M.—clarified the truth: Sarah wasn’t in bed. Since I hadn’t remembered seeing her during my bathroom visit, she either a) had been murdered, b) was on the run or c) got restless and was sleeping elsewhere. My good buddy Occam led me quickly to option C.
There have been a few times since we’ve lived together that I’ve had trouble sleeping, when all it took to settle my nerves was a shift in sleeping locations. Usually this takes me to the couch. Sarah instead opts for the guest bed. (She does have at least one Ivy League degree.) This is where I found her last night, all snuggled up with the kitties. Now I know for sure who they love best.
Turns out Sarah’s developing cold got grip of her around three o’clock and wouldn’t let her go back to sleep. I fetched her some medicine and kissed her on the forehead, the mommy-approved treatment for caring for the ailing loved one. I have no mystical healing powers, but sometimes a kiss and a tucking in is all it takes to calm the sickly nerves and bring on some sleep.