Fake sleep and hot dogs

Last week while L was away giving himself scoliosis from being constantly hunched over large textbooks, Rosie had a small bout of illness that I am not going to go into detail about here. Because I want you to continue to enjoy hot dogs for the occasional meal. You’re welcome. It was mercifully short-lived, which was nice, but occurred almost wholly between the hours of 12am and 5am, which was not nice.  Since she was having fairly frequent spells of her, ah, ailment, I decided to put her in bed with me so that instead of having to drag myself out of shut-eye to change the crib sheets every half hour I could just hold her upside down by her ankles over a trash can next to my bed and then flop back down to sleep, easy-peasy lemon squeezy.  This is the kind of brilliance that can only come from YEARS of practiced laziness.

And the plan was brilliant too, except for the fact that Rosie does not sleep in our bed ever, and clearly wanted to know why the lights were out? And where the hell is my breakfast, woman? My sister, once again lowering my shot at her kidney, slept in the bed with us to keep Rosie from going AWOL off L’s side.  And so we lay there on either side of the bed, Rosie sitting straight up between us in the dark, attempting to contain the peals of laughter that were bouncing around in our chests while Rosie filibustered her way toward dawn. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to realistically convince a 16-month old that you are sleeping (and that therefore she should want to be sleeping) while she pokes and prods you like a science experiment, but it is possibly one of the most comedic situations I’ve ever been in. And it was only enhanced by the fact that every once in a while she would pause and be very still for a minute or so before making some odd sound that would make me bolt upright in fear that I was about to get ailmented all over, only to have nothing come of it and have to lie back down quickly and pretend that I was still “sleeping” despite the fact that I was shaking the bed with my mute laughter.

Now this week L has been struck down with the ailment, and while I feel really sorry for him, I have to say it is not nearly as entertaining. But then, neither is it as full of hot dogs, which is a trade I am willing to make.

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