Being in a relationship for 19 years means that certain rules are established; there is no need to speak of them, they are silently there. Since my husband works the graveyard shift things are a little wacky in the rules department, but I stupidly thought we had established rules for when it is OK to wake one another up years ago. In order for me to wake him up, it must be a true bona fide emergency. That is the only rule, and I’d better be sure that is in an emergency, not a pseudo-emergency, otherwise he’ll whine about it all day.

In order for him to wake me up the following rules apply:

1) He wants sex? Sure, wake me. 99% of the time I am game as long as he doesn’t expect any reverse cowgirl acrobatics or anything else that requires amazing amounts of physical exertion and/or stamina on my part.

2) One of the kids is sick? Yes, wake me immediately.

3) One of the animals just barfed or shit on the floor? If he wakes me I will clean up the mess, go back to bed, and then secretly wish death on him for the rest of the day because he didn’t deal with it himself.

4) He can’t find something? I say no on this one, but he does it all of the time. He can’t find the Advil? He wakes me. It isn’t on the medicine cabinet so I get up and find it sitting on the desk or on top of the fridge. I shoot him hate rays as he blames me for things not being in their place. Apparently, as wife and mother, I am responsible for the proper whereabouts of every item in the house. This has happened with things in the fridge. I have stumbled out of bed, shoved aside the milk and pointed to the mustard, and then fallen back into bed. My word on this one is look harder for said item, or live without it.

5) To ask me if I am hungry? No. I am not hungry. I am tired. That is why I am sleeping. I must admit that I have caused this one to backfire on me many times when he has set a warm plate of freshly cooked hash browns by my head in the middle of the night and I have eaten them eagerly.

This morning, before the sun had its chance to rise, something new happened. I heard a loud whisper above my head, “Are you awake?” I mumbled “mmmm hmmmm” and he asked, “Could you tell me if this noodle is done?” I looked up and saw him standing there with a strand of spaghetti over my head. I mumbled something to the effect of “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me”, rolled over and tried to fall back to sleep. He used to work as a chef in an Italian restaurant for fuck’s sake.

Apparently, the rules are not yet carved in stone; there are variables. I did feel almost guilty when I finally woke up and ate his leftover spaghetti for breakfast though.