As an unassuming stripling, my family would often quip that nothing, not even wicked torment itself, could wake me from my slumber. Well, I’ve aged. Today, as an ardent husband and soon-to-be proud papa, there are three vile, unwholesome obstructions to my slumber.
The first goes like this: a precipitous grumble and boom in my belly, several unforeseen and often acidic belches and one annoyed wife. This I’ll call irritable bowl parties. No, I’m not partying, but my girth seems to be having the most lawless house party ever, with all kinds of fist and foot pumps stepping to beat of the Beebs. Along with IBP, post-five-o-clock naps will always prevent me from sleeping when I lay my head. Finally, any late-night caffeine fixes, whether by coffee or Coke, will set on course a thought-against-thought rivalry in mind, as I wonder whether I left the toilet seat ajar, what morning action would best display my love for my love and how to best continue for a peaceable future, with many sleep-gorged nights.