I wait. Hour since the 2200 he went to bed, we are still awake. I'll get hell for it in the morning. We'll wake up hours later than his predetermined (and undisclosed) 'wake up' time, and he'll say the same thing he says about it every weekend. I've long since given up indignant feelings about it.
As soon as she nurses to sleep, I'll run downstairs and take more medicine: 1shot of Vick's something-or-the-other, and 2 Off-Brand Tylenol; it's all I can do to breathe while sleeping.
I don't know how the schedule ended up this way. I refuse to torment her by some futile attempt to force her to sleep or not according to when somebody thinks she ought to.
She will just scream, and I'll recieve dirty looks through droopy eyelids. Oh yes, we've been there.
This entire week I have claimed I am dying. Some invisible entity is crushing my sinuses with a specially designed vice. The Mucus Glob and his wife (From those Mucinex commercials) are residing in my lungs. And the Goodyear blimp has been replaced with a suitable stand-in; My head.
I'm either drugged up beyond comprehension, or to sick to know what's going on.
These feelings are only intolerable when the clock hits 0200.
She looks at me, flashes her squinty eyed, big-as-bears toothy grin. I smile back, she giggles, and resumes trying to chew the EGA.
It's either that, or she lies across my side, elbowing me between each and every rib.
I love her endlessly. My heart finds her to be mine, much more than is equal. There are only a handful of moments I can recall not spending with her.
It is nights like this that I honestly believe- It's you and me against the world, Monkey.
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