...Desperate Sleep Seeker

January 2009

It happened again last night.  I wound up sleeping on the couch.  Somewhere around midnight I grabbed my blankets and my pillow and set up camp in the family room.   Insomnia wasn’t the culprit.   My husband and I didn’t have a late-night fight.   None of our small humans were trying to cocoon themselves in our bed.    Nearly two hours before, I’d kissed my husband goodnight (or at least I think I did), gotten my pillows just so, burrowed under my covers, and fallen blissfully asleep.  

But then our 19-month old let out a short, but relatively loud wail that came flying through the monitor.   There was only that one little cry and then he was back to night-night land.  Pobresito (poor baby), as my Costa Rican nanny would say.   Knowing that he was resettled, I rolled over to drift off again myself. 

And then it started.  Pbbbrrrrrr.   Hrrrrrrrrrm.   Pbbbrrrrrr.    Hrrrrrrrrrm.  You’ve got to be kidding.   I flop over to see if I can get that noise to stop, and gratefully it does.   But only to be replaced after a brief silence with Hnnnnnkkkrrr.  Huhhhhhhhh.  HNNNNNNNKKKKKRRRRRR.  HUHHHHHHHHHH.  Now I’m wide-awake.   HNNNNNNKKKKKKKRRRR.  HUHHHHHHH.   This goes on for a few more minutes until my wonderful, kind, generous husband wakes himself up with his own snoring.  Mountain cedar is high these days, his sinuses are plugged up and well, the guy just can’t breathe.  Pobresito.  He looks around as if this lovely noise came from somewhere else, chuckles a little in slight embarrassment and turns over, quiet once again. 

But this is not my first rodeo, so I lay there, vigilant.  Wait for it.  Wait for it.  Just wait.  Ah, there it is, not to be disappointed: Gnnnnnnnnnt.  Chnnnnnnnnk.  Gnnnnnnnt. Chnnnnnnk.   I know without even checking that this is not my husband.   This is my dog.  Yes, my dog.  Tucker. 

Tucker is a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel – an expensive Cocker as my husband puts it.  He’s cute, incredibly good with the kids, a real family dog.  But like many scrunch-nosed and semi-scrunch-nosed dogs, his air passages are short which results in his chronic and very loud snoring.  Our friends are amused when they catch him honk-shooing away.  But I’m not.  Ever.  So, now my husband is quiet, and my dog is snoring away, curled up right behind my legs.  GNNNNNNNT.  CHNNNNNNNK. GNNNNNNNNT. CHNNNNNNK.  Lovely.

Officially, Tucker has been banned from sleeping with us because of his snoring.   But that dog is pretty clever.  He’s learned that if he falls asleep upstairs with the kids, he’s safe from being put in his canine condo.  The smoke alarm doesn’t wake the kids and apparently neither does Tucker’s snoring.   So, on a good night, everyone’s happy:  Tucker’s “free;” the kids get their furry friend to sleep with them, and we get some good, well-earned sleep. 

However, most nights Tucker decides to play musical beds.  He’ll start out with the kids.  And then about 4:00 AM, we hear thud (Tucker’s not very light on his feet), jingle, jingle, jingle (his collar), slurp, slurp, slurp (he smacks his lips, but oh, that’s a whole ‘nother conversation), scratch, scratch (him trying to jump up on our bed – did I mention he’s not very light on his feet?).  Then he’s on us, trampling his loving masters as if we’re not even there.  After a few more slurps, he settles down and falls asleep.  Comfy.  

By now, I’m usually wide awake.  After three babies and being ever on alert for their cries, it doesn’t take much to rouse me.  Tucker’s cacophony starts pretty quickly.  How on earth any living being can fall asleep that fast and that hard is beyond me, but Tucker is, indeed, off to the races.   I’m awake and growing more and more irritated.  Not just because he’s woken me up, but because my alarm is set to go off 90 minutes later, which means I’ll really just lay there, waiting, never really plummeting back into deep sleep.  I’m not a morning person; enough said. 

Now, for all you dog lovers, you might want to skip this next part.  So, I nudge him with my foot.  Okay, that’s a lie: I slide my foot under his little head and shake it until I wake him up.  I don’t hurt him – I’ve got like 12 blankets on me, so there’s plenty of padding.  He stops snoring… for two seconds, and then starts back up.  We exchange snores and uh, nudges for a couple rounds until I’m thoroughly annoyed. 

Then the real game begins: I throw back my covers and get out of bed.  I reach across to pick up my 26-pound dog.  But he knows what’s coming.   Before I can grab him, he leaps off the bed and runs into our bathroom, behind the commode and just out of reach.  Fine.  Sleep there.   I get back in bed.  Stealthily, or as stealthily as jingle, jingle, slurp, slurp, scratch can be, Tucker jumps back on our bed.  Nuh uh, I don’t think so.  Back the covers go.  Down the dog goes, to the cold tile and the toilet.  This goes on until one of two things happens: he either stays there where his snores are at least muted or I’m able to snag him.   If I get him, he whines.  He’s off to his version of doggy prison and truly doesn’t know why.  Pobresito.  Whatever. 

In case you think this is simply a limited conspiracy with my husband and my dog, I can assure you it most certainly is not.   It appears that snoring is a family affair.  Our daughter used to “raise the roof” with her guttural symphonies (very unlady like), but was exonerated by the removal of her tonsils and adenoids out two years ago.  That leaves the boys.  Please allow me to illustrate… 

As every parent knows, napping is a gift.   It is particularly a gift when you have a break in your big kids’ Saturday sports schedules, a new Wii game is waiting to be played, and your 19-month old decides it’s time for a marathon power nap.   This was the scene at our house a few weeks ago.  My husband and I lay down with our blankets and TiVO remote for a few restful moments.   My eyelids get heavy and I fall into that yummy, dead sleep -- a sleep deep enough to block out the TV, kids’ voices and seemingly any other noise.  Heaven.

Somewhere out of the depths of this great nap, our second child stomps into the room.  Without even asking, I know he and his sister have had a fight: someone was hogging the Wii, someone changed the rules, someone wanted to go play something else, someone wouldn’t help clean up.  Not that I don’t care, but well, I don’t care.  I’m napping for Heaven’s sake.  He tries to plead his case, but my only response is to pull back the blanket for him crawl in next to me.  And thankfully he does.  Of our three kids, he’s my only snuggler, so it was a pretty easy – and enjoyable – sell.  Now that we’re all snuggled in, it’s time to doze off.

At the time, I didn’t realize Tucker had snuck in with our son, but soon, it’s all too apparent.   He starts:  GNNNNNNNT.  CHNNNNNNNK. GNNNNNNNNT. CHNNNNNNK.  (“Nudge, nudge.”) Not to be outdone, my husband joins in:  Pbbbrrrrrr.  Hrrrrrrrrrm.  Ugh.  There’s snoring at my back and at my feet.  Déjà vu. 

But then my world falls apart.    Pbbbllllllhhh.  Chhhhhssssss.  Pbbbblllllhhhh.  Chhhhhsssss. You have GOT to be kidding.  Him?  My beautiful, sweet, snuggly 8 year old?  He’s in on it, too?  I’m sure I’m in hell.  After all, what else could this be?    GNNNNNNNNT.  Pbbbbrrrrrrrr.  Pbbblllllllh.  CHNNNNNNK. Hrrrrrrrm. Chhhhhhhsssss.  And there, in the periodic gaps of silence I hear the faintest hnkshhhhhhhhh hnkshhhhhhhhhh hnkshhhhhh – coming through the baby monitor.  Yeah, that’s the end of my nap.  And that’s also the end of my rope.

Why snoring bothers me so much is a mystery.  I know it’s natural.  I know it’s not intentional.  I know all this.   Maybe what bothers me, as a Type A personality, is that snores are so random: everyone has their own version, making it impossible to even  organize letters to create an accurate onomatopoeia of all the sounds.  Perhaps it’s my inability to classify the noise or identify a pattern or meter the strange cadence of a snore that sends me over the edge.   Whatever it is, the results are the same: me, no sleep. 

This is probably the place where I should address the obvious question.  The answer is yes: yes, I snore…occasionally.  But I’m not chronic.  And I don’t wake myself up.  Perhaps more importantly, I don’t KEEP others up as a result of my periodic nasal melodies.  No, this is not a case of people living in glass houses, trust me.   Sometimes I talk in my sleep, or sigh out loud if I’ve dropped off too fast, and yes I’ve been know to flop around like a fish until I get comfortable.   My worst offense, and one that my husband pays for every night?  I have tragically cold feet.   But snoring?  Nope.

So as night begins to approach and we start our bedtime routine, I have to admit to feeling a bit anxious.   Will I actually get to sleep through the night?  Will I get to stay in my own warm, comfortable bed?  Will I get to snuggle with my husband for at least 8 hours?   Or will the numerous soft palates, epiglottises, and sinuses that occupy the people – and canine – that I love send me packing, once again, to the  living room couch? 

Hnnnnkkkkshhuuuuuu.  Hnnnnkkkkshhhhhhuuuuu.  Hnnnnkkkshuuuuu. 

Pobresito.