Quit touching me, dammit!

I am -- how to put this? -- a delicate sleeper.

That means there are rules in our marital bed, rules that the Hubs has been ignoring lately, at much peril to his continued well-being.

The primary offense?

Touching. He keeps touching me.

A toe on the calf. A hand resting on my thigh. Or a big, hairy leg draped over both of my own legs.

It's most annoying when I'm on the brink of dozing off. Because once I'm disturbed, I have to start all over with the tried-and-true sleep rituals, one of which is a half-hour of reading.

So you can understand my chagrin? No? You think spooning is sweet?

I used to as well. Until I had two kids who shunned slumber and I started to value my own sleep about as much as those precious drops of milk I pumped umpteen times a day from my breasts, just in case Hubs volunteered to give the little darlings a bottle during the night so that I could ... you know ... maybe ... sleep?

You're pitying him, aren't you? Poor man, married to such a cold, unresponsive wife.

Did I mention the snoring? Or that he's also guilty of facing me -- another no-no -- which means he's not only directing noise in my direction but also breathing on me?

We delicate sleepers contend that breathing counts as touching.

And it must stop. Now.

All right, all right. The touching. The touching must stop. He can breathe. As long as he's turned the other way. And doing it so quietly that one might wonder if he's still alive.

Really, I'm quite reasonable. And it's not just me. He's bothering the dog too. She's very sensitive to snoring.

Note the evident weariness here, the effort to remain patient:



OK, well, the children's determination to make her part of the Pretty Pony herd might have something to do with her fatigue, but really, I mostly blame Hubs' noisiness.

All right then, I'm off to bed, where I will -- if I am allowed to fall and stay asleep -- commence dreaming of this freaking fabulous concept.