We just got back from a long weekend in Florida. Florida is that perfect mix of sun, sand and absolutely bonkers white trashness.
Our hotel was nice and kid friendly and by 8pm each night, the boys were flat out exhausted from getting yelled at for running by the pool, getting yelled at for feeding seagulls French fries and getting yelled at for punching dolphins. So we had zero problems getting them into bed.
Diana and I knew there was zero chance we’d actually get to sleep with each other as husband and wife. So we jockeyed for who got stuck sleeping with Luca. As you recall, Luca is a black belt in Sleep Karate. His scissor kick to the face would make Jean Claude Van Damme blush.
The thing Diana had going for her is Eli loves her more than he loves me. That’s a fact. So my false accusations that mommy farts in bed fell on deaf ears.
On the first night, I bedded down next to Luca and positioned a pillow in front of my vulnerable genitals. I begged him not to kick or punch me in his sleep. Luca whispered, “I’m scared, Daddy.”
I said, “Oh. Do you want to hold my hand?”
I discovered something amazing: As long as I held his hand, Luca remained stationary and didn’t punch me in the throat. The minute I let go of his hand, he’d flop around violently.
So his hand I held. Holding the exact same position was tougher than I thought. Occasionally, I’d wake up with my arm bent painfully under my back or threaded pretzel-like through my legs.
At one point, I had to pound my arm to stimulate circulation and I thought, “Screw it. I’ll take the kick to the face. I need my arm back.”
Luca rolled over and said, “I love you.”
Who needs two arms anyway?