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?”
“Yes.”
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?
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