No, this is not an X-Rated post, so if you're looking for that, please look elsewhere...
The last two nights have been, shall we say, interesting in the ol' master bedroom. First of all, my husband sleeps with a bi-pap machine because he has crazy sleep apnea. We, well, I discovered the apnea when I would wake at night to nurse a newborn Violet. I would snuggle down in the chair and listen to Scott's very loud rhythmic snoring. As I became more attuned to the music he made, I started hearing decrescendos in his snoring -- as in I could hear as his airway closed and his snoring would sound pinched, getting quieter and quieter until there was silence. During the silence I would chuck whatever handy object was near me at him, hoping to jostle him into breathing again. He would resume breathing with a snort and start right back in with the snoring. One morning, after he woke to find four half empty water bottles, two bath towels and a book in the bed, he decided to call the doctor and arrange a sleep study, after which he was prescribed the bi-pap.
Now, I realize that I have little to complain about the Darth Vader sleeping next to me, but the bi-pap will shoot cold air at me if he's facing me, something which inevitably wakes me with a start. The machine is keeping him from suffering the apnea, and therefore, it is ensuring that he will wake the next day. But still, it's a bit of an inconvenience -- I can't kiss his face when he's sleeping, he can't wake me gently with kisses on my shoulders, and he has to sleep with hurricane-force winds bombarding his face all night long.
At least most nights. Some nights, he removes the mask due to discomfort. When he does, he turns off the machine and hangs his mask over the headboard. The moment when he removes his mask is accompanied by a very loud whoosh (read: jet engine turbine) unless he turns the machine off before removing the mask. Which he usually does.
Sunday night, however, he only managed to get the mask off his face. He didn't remember to turn the machine off, he didn't remember to hang his mask -- in fact, it was tucked into the crook of his arm, whooshing away. For an hour. For an hour in which I was roused several times by the noise. For an hour during which I poked him, trying to wake him after the several times I was awakened. For an hour, which concluded in me shoving him with both of my hands until he woke enough to turn the damned jet engine off. After which, he rolled onto his side, still asleep and I laid awake, watching the time slip by as it was projected by my alarm clock onto the ceiling.
Speaking of the alarm clock... It died last night. It had a short, yet full life of functioning for three years, despite the children who poked it, pressed it's buttons randomly, and used it occasionally as a step to climb into my bed. It survived me hitting the snooze button countless times and the inevitable cursing when I finally dragged myself from bed every morning. I think that of all of the alarm clocks which I have had during my three dozen years, this alarm clock was my favorite because I could program two different alarms with multiple functions and project the time onto the ceiling so that if a child woke overnight, I could simply open my eyes and there would be the time, no fumbling, no squinting without my glasses, it was just there, a floating blue metronome on my ceiling.
How did my darling alarm clock die?
I am embarrassed to admit that I killed it. I killed it when I was trying to stay organized. I killed it when I dropped my underwear on it, setting them there so that I could find them after Scott and I attempted to conceive our elusive third child. Because I didn't want to fumble around in the dark searching for my Hanes, I selfishly killed my alarm clock.