The Ten Commandments for Sleeping with Me

And lo! The Lord said unto me: “I’ve transfigured thy mattress into a trampoline.”

It’s 3:36am and I’m eating Cheetos on a couch in Paris. Let me tell you my story before you judge me.

I was sound asleep 15 minutes ago, lying next to my husband in the narrow double bed we share when we’re doing our monthly caring duties for The Devil. The mattress is cheap and bouncy, the sort of mattress that appeals to the very young or the very much in love. We are neither, at least not at 3:36am.

My husband doesn’t roll over in his sleep like a normal person. He doesn’t shift, or turn, or adjust. No. He flops. He flounces. He flaps. It’s less sleep movement and more interpretive dance. The frame groans and the headboard slams against the wall with a rhythm and conviction that is probably why the neighbour regards me with sad jealousy if we pass in the hall.

Lady, if you only knew.

Our cat has what I would clinically describe as attachment issues; she’s designated me as her emotional support human and the arrangement is non-negotiable. This is why we bring her to Paris every month. Yes. I know. We are those people.

The cat’s policy is that she sleeps with us. Always. At home in our big-people bed with its big-people mattress, she takes the foot and there’s room enough for all of us to sleep securely in the knowledge that no one will wake up bleeding. In Paris, she has assessed the chaos and concluded that the only safe position is directly on top of me. I am stable ground.

Boy howdy, was she wrong about that.

I don’t know exactly how it happened because I was asleep when it started, but the sequence as I’ve reconstructed it: Franck flung himself over like a walrus performing at Sea World, the mattress launched me and the cat like a trebuchet, I hit the edge, teetered, and the cat landed directly on my ribcage, tipping the balance. We hit the floor together. A team, to the end.

My husband snored.

So here I am, rage-typing this with Cheeto-dusted fingers in the wee hours of the morning. In the spirit of public service, I present the Ten Commandments for Sleeping with Me, in ascending order of sin:

10. Thou shalt not hog the covers: Classic. Entry-level. You’re barely even trying.

9. Thou shalt not take up 3/4 of the bed: An escalation, but tonight I’m putting this at nine because I’ve had worse.

8. Thou shalt not breathe directly into my face: Specifically, exhale your sleep-stink breath in my general direction.

7. Thou shalt not slap-fight me when I try to roll you over: I am helping you. I am performing a public service. Stop hitting me.

6. Thou shalt not put your cold feet on my bare legs: This is assault.

5. Thou shalt not bounce when you roll over: You are a grown adult. Not a Space Hopper.

4. Thou shalt not turn on the hall light at midnight without closing the bedroom door: It hits me like a spotlight. I feel like I’m being interrogated. What did I do. Tell me what I did.

3. Thou shalt not use your phone in bed with full brightness, sound, and haptics on: Every notification travels through your elbow, across the mattress, through my spine, and into whatever part of the brain handles murderous rage. Turn. It. Off.

2. Thou shalt not grind your teeth: I am begging you. It sounds like you’re chewing gravel.

1. Thou shalt not roll over as I pick myself off the floor at 3:21am and ask sleepily, “Are you awake?”: You know I’m awake. You catapulted me onto the floor just now. The Cheetos know I’m awake. The cat knows I’m awake. The neighbours definitely know I’m awake, they just think I’m enjoying it.