My children haven’t been playing by the rules.  Not at all.  The rules are clear and unwavering–  children must sleep in their own beds at night unless a fire or some large natural disaster compels them to do otherwise.  It’s a rule that their father and I vowed to uphold shortly after Dominic (our oldest) was born.  We have clung desperately to it ever since – through thick and thin.  No family bed in our house, no sir, not on your life.  It’s a rule that I believe has kept our marriage happy and our minds relatively sane.  And amazingly, the kids seem to know this too.  It’s almost as if they intuit that this is one rule they cannot mess with.  Either that or the high pitched quiver of hysteria in our voices in the midst of night time wakings is a dead giveaway.  In any case, it’s a rule my kids have upheld … until this week.

Thanks to a series of thunderstorms slamming the Bay Area, both children have been stealthily slithering into our bed all week in the middle of the night for cuddles and reassurance.  The visits are brief, carefully designed to disrupt the critical REM sleep of the parents before settling back into their own beds.  They fall back to sleep happily comforted while the long suffering parents stare wide awake in the dark until morning. The first few nights, we indulged it – hell, we almost encouraged it.  After all, thunder and lightning is scary, especially when your bedroom is in attic (as is the case of our kids) and you are basically sleeping in the eye of storm.  It’s loud up there with the rain pounding on the roof and the wind whistling through the cracks in the window panes.  That, plus having their warm snuggly bodies spooned next to you in their fleecy pjs – it is addictively cozy.  We also kind of liked the novelty of it.   There was something miraculous about cramming all living creatures in the household (including our two cats and the dog) on to one small queen-sized bed and having them stay in one place harmoniously for at least one hour.  That novelty soon wore off.

Last night (for the fourth night in a row) my seven year old son crawled into our bed around 3 am after a large clap of thunder.  He not only brought his three year old sister and her blanky, but also a host of inanimate friends. He brought “Domo” (his brown, one eyed Japanese stuffed toy) as well as his R2-D2 key ring.  He also carted down his Fur-covered Dave Eggers book on "Where the Wild Things Are," and his “Super D” super hero cape.  Have you ever snuggled up to a book and a Star Wars-themed key ring? Or rolled onto them at 3:45 am?   Believe me, it isn’t much fun. 

My husband lasted 30 minutes before finally lurching out of bed and shuffling over to the couch.  The pets, also disgusted, followed suit one by one.  That left me, the two kids (who always sleep in right angles like spiky starfish) and Dominic’s four treasured objects.  I lasted until 4 am and then, after a particularly vicious jab in the back by a child's elbow, headed for the kids room myself.  At least I would have a bed to myself, I thought, and could salvage a few more moments of shut eye.  Wrong.  As I crept into my son’s bed, I heard a deafening crash as a number of tiny objects scattered by my feet.  Upon close inspection, I could make out the shapes of Dominic’s robot droid, marbles and his entire plastic pirate collection in the darkness.  What was all this?  Evidently, my son had strategically placed all his prized possessions at the bottom of his bed to protect them from dastardly thieves or at least his sister’s sticky fingers.  They might have been booby traps of sorts, or even a warning signal against possible intruders.  Who knows?  Whatever the case, the racket these objects made hitting the ground rivaled the storm in drama and intensity, waking every living creature in the house.  Seconds later, my kids were back in their own beds, complaining that our bedroom was too noisy and empty.  My husband lurched off the couch and even the pets resumed their usual positions.  All was right with the world again.

This morning at breakfast, my groggy son asked me to please not sneak into his bed anymore. He said that his bed was really a kid’s bed and that it was best if only he slept in it from now on.  He said that he keeps his most precious toys there and didn’t feel comfortable about having me disturb them.  He reminded me of our house rule and said that he thinks we should all try to follow it.  His baby sister, who happens to be going through a “I want to be just like my brudder” stage,  nodded moronically in agreement while continuing to drink her juice from a sippy cup.  I told Dominic that he was really smart and then we made our pact.  “We are going to stick to our own beds from now on – and just visit each other when we really needed to” we all chanted.  And that was that.  I can happily say I will never forsake that rule again and neither will my children, I suspect.  The pets and husband on the other hand… … Sweet dreams!