A lesson on appreciating what you don't have until you have it

Stop me if you've heard this one before....2 kids walk into their bedrooms....

(Drum Roll)

...And don't sleep!

Last night, I slept so hard, and so thoroughly, that at one point I had to pee, and did so without completely waking up. My dreams were epic-length, and good (for a change) involving Hawaii and mai tais. When the alarm went off this morning, I felt stoned, deep in sleep.

All of this, of course, is refreshing. But it only happened because of the hellish night before:

At around midnight, I hear S coming down the hall. He is pulling his gigantic down comforter across the floor. I can hear him dragging it, not because goose down is especially noisy, but because it is laden with Lego pieces and it is slowly shedding them on the hardwood. I hear S awkwardly open my door knob (door knobs are tricky when you should be asleep) and proceed into my room, thumping down on to the floor by my bed. I hear Clooney sigh in confusion? annoyance? fatigue as S tackles him, reels him in and grasps him in a headlock.

Silence returns.

Moments later, I hear E's door open, E's "stealthy" footfalls on the floor, traipsing into my room, attempting to climb over his brother, and into my bed. I whisper-yell him onto the floor, "down there, with your brother. No room up here." The Clooney sighs again, S scoots to a side, E tucks in under the comforter.

Silence returns.

Clooney begins to whimper and cry. He is hot. He hates being stifled under a giant dead goose, and wants to be set free. I whisper-yell to S to set the dog free. His paws click click click over the hardwood, mute as he travels over the rug, and click click click again as he looks for a cool place to stretch out.

Silence returns.

I have to pee. Navigating the bodies on my floor, I proceed to the bathroom, slam my shin into an open drawer, and stare confusedly at the empty toilet paper dispenser. Half-sleep is no time to be looking for refills. Kleenex it is, then.

Silence.

S wakes up and panics when Clooney is no longer in the broiling death grip. He rises, and searches the room for his furry sidekick. His whisper calls to the dog increase in pitch as he begins to panic, and whisper-yells at me: "Clooney's gone. He ran away."

While I am too befuddled to explain that Clooney lacks apposable thumbs and therefore is unlikely to have escaped from a house where the only exits have door knobs, I stammer through a guarantee that in fact, the dog surely must be home.

Stumbling. Searching. More looking for the dog. "HERE HE IS." As expected. I hear, in the dark, Clooney's put-out sigh as he is again captured and returned to his own personal sauna.

4 AM. Suddenly, I am awake. Very awake. I remain this way for 35 minutes before dozing off again.

6 AM. Alarm. My sleep, awkward, interrupted and shallow, is over. I round up dopey children to start another day. Another in a seven-year-long string of cranky days caused by irregular, unreliable sleep.

The children are difficult to rouse. There is a Hansel and Gretel trail of Legos leading from the floor-comforter back to S's bed. The night of musical chairs has taken its toll. Perhaps, but not necessarily the most annoying thing happens as M rises:

M goes into E's room and calls, "E must have slept in S's bed last night." M's footfalls proceed down the hall to S's room: "Wait. There's nobody in here, either. Where is everyone?"

Not only had he not heard the night's busy goings-on, he managed to walk by the little bodies on his way to rouse them. While I can't quite put my finger on why, that seems unfair.