Nighty Night. Sleep Tight.

Clarke and I were like twins. We were, in fact, "Irish twins," which is a set of siblings born within twelve months of each other. Not only that, he was January and I was December, meaning we were both born in 1985, and therefore always in each others' Primary classes at church (until he decided he'd about had it with being in Primary with his annoying little sister, and just pretended he was supposed to be in the 1984 class).

He was 11 months, 18 days, and 3 minutes older than me.

And yes, as the little sister, I reminded him of that EVERY time he tried to claim he was a year older than me.

There was another aspect of being the annoying little sister I played very well: bed time torture routine.

When I was somewhere around 7 years old, we shared a room. He was on the top bunk, and I was on the bottom. I honestly loved it. It was great having my bestest big brother so close to me. We could talk and play, and I could mercilessly tickle his feet every time he tried to climb the ladder into his bed.

Every. Night.

I never let up.

It was hilarious! He would try to climb the ladder, and I was lying in wait on the lower bed. The instant his feet got within reach of my fingers, I would attack, and he would jump off, yelling various protests or threats of telling our mom. After the fifth or sixth failed attempt to get past my fingers, his complaints got increasingly more whiny and desperate, and one of our parents would finally come in and tell me to knock it off.

I would lay back and smile angelically, while still giggling furiously.

Now, with age comes wisdom, and with wisdom comes maturity, so you'd think I'd grow out of this, right?

Nope.

I just got a little wiser about it.

See, when you do crap like that every night, the humor wears off pretty fast.

But, if you only do it once in a while, you still get that furious giggle every time you do.

Sometime in my early twenties, my best friend and apartment-mate made the mistake of deciding that instead of just sharing an apartment, we should share a room too. Initially, I thought this was a terrible idea, because we were best friends, and we had a horrible habit of staying up until 3:00 AM talking when we really should have been sleeping.

She asked me to switch into her room like 5 times before I finally relented, and I found out my fears were for naught. Being in that close of quarters all the time actually solved the 3:00 AM problem, and I ended up getting more sleep sharing a room with her than not.

And finally, I was sharing my room with my best friend. I'd only done that once before, and it only lasted a semester. This time, we were in the same room for like 3 years.

And she was on the top bunk.

Now, I was a bit past feet-tickling. The humor of that particular brand of irritation had definitely worn off, maybe a decade before.

No, now my singular goal was to make her heart race at roughly 173 bpm just as she was trying to settle down and go to sleep.

See, Lynnae had this habit of watching Netflix on her laptop until the wee hours of the morning. She would sit at her desk with headphones in, and go through a tale of fantasy and magic, or possibly crime-solving and butt kicking. Then, she'd put her headphones away, shut down her laptop, and go to bed.

Sometimes I was asleep.

Sometimes I wasn't.

She never knew.

She also never wisened up and started using the ladder. She always just climbed onto the top bunk up by the opening to her blanket, which also happened to be right by my head.

Now, most nights I deliberately let her get into her bed untouched. Like I said, if you do it every night, the humor wears off.

But every now and then, I'd lay as quietly as possible, breathing evenly, waiting. Then, just as she put her feet on the edge of the bed to hoist herself up, I'd let out my very best raptor snarl and fling myself out, clutching her around the waist.

And yes, her little yelp of terror was freaking hilarious. Every. Time.

Then, I got married. Marriage requires a lot of maturity, you know.

Carl frequently stays up until the wee hours of the morning studying anatomy or molecular biology or organic chemistry, or whatever the homework happens to be. We'll read scriptures and say prayers together, he'll kiss me goodnight, and then I'll go to sleep while he goes to get stuff done. Usually, I don't even hear him come back in, and I just wake up next to him in the morning.

Last night, I had a horrible case of insomnia. Right around 3:00 in the morning, I was still wide awake, and frankly, a bit bored. As I laid there, trying to force myself to sleep, I heard the door handle turn quietly. Carl stepped lightly, trying not to disturb what he thought was my slumber.

And, oh. I couldn't resist. It had been years.

I laid quietly, waiting.

He took off his glasses and set them on the nightstand.

I didn't move.

He took off his pants.

I kept my breathing even and calm.

He knelt by the bed, and said his prayers.

I remained still.

He climbed into bed, and got under the covers.

As soon as he had settled and stopped moving, out came the raptor snarl, and I launched myself onto his chest. His whole body jolted, and he grabbed me, his body rocking with stunned laughter. While giggling to an appropriate degree, I snuggled into his chest affectionately, and listened to his heart begin to slow. Ever the good sport, he hugged me and admitted that yes, I'd scared the crap out of him.

So, what can we learn from this?

My bestest big brother, my bff in college, and my awesome husband/person I'm all mushy about.

Basically, if I really, truly love you, with all my heart, you probably don't want to share a room with me.