(Illustration from Christopher Niemen in the New York Times.)
When was the last time you woke up in the morning and didn't find an extra body in your bed? When you're single in your 20s, to have this magical moment happen would be bragging bliss. When you're married with children you'd still die for it to happen; just not this way.
You know the routine: you spend the hour plus in the bedtime ritual of bath, story, potty, another story, and glass of water before they fall asleep. You and your spouse are lucky to get some 90-minutes of grown up time before you shrug off to bed yourselves.
Then, magically, mysteriously, spontaneously, in the dead of night, the third wheel appears. And it's not the coquettish co-ed of your dreams, it's little Cindy Lou Who tugging at the corner of your bed sheet asking to join the party because of monsters or something.
So in she crawls. At first, it's fine. You're a little tight, but you can deal. But the kid likes to wiggle. The worm likes to squirm and while you may be lucky enough to avoid a knifing knee in the ribs or a flailing fist in the eye, you can't avoid the squeeze play the child pulls.
She'll twist and turn and transform your bed into some alphabet lesson. If it's not an H, then it's an A. She's either across your waists or up in your face and it's something you can't fight.
The next time you're awoken by a screaming "Daaaaaa-deeeeeee" somewhere in the dark of night, it's best to wave the flag of surrender right away.
Give up your territory.
Go to the couch.
This isn't the threesome you've been dreaming of.
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