In the Wee, Small Hours . . .

Il Roberto is out of town again. He's in LA. This is something that happens with regularity around here. It is not new. BUT, after several years of such occasions, I have yet to get used to them. After much introspection and self-debate, I realize that I don't like being here alone.

That's something I wouldn't have predicted twelve years ago, when I was very happily living very alone in my very small apartment in the very middle of a decent-sized city. Worry? HA!

Now I worry.

I fret, and I peer out windows, and prowl the house at all hours, randomly turning on lights so any would-be intruders are thrown off by the signs of wakefulness. I raid the fridge (nervous eating, and very detrimental to my self-image the next day). I look up odd things on the Internet. (Last night it was translations of my children's nicknames.) I pick up and put away the detritus of life that I was successful in ignoring throughout the day.

Eventually, I get very sleepy. That tends to happen when one is consistently wakeful at three in the morning, and has had a long and frustrating day. So, at some point between midnight and two a.m. I attempt to make myself comfortable on our family room couch. (Not my bed. Because the bed is upstairs, and the kids are not, and I don't want to have to rush downstairs in the middle of the night, swinging my fancy red aluminum bat--my weapon of choice, because bludgeoning someone just seems more humane--if I can just stay downstairs and sleep with said bat on the couch.)

Slight problem: I am not the only one who has trouble sleeping when the paterfamilias is away. Soon after I snuggle down with my bat and my phone--set to speed-dial 911 at the slightest press of a button--I am joined by at least two kyddos. And our couch is not large enough for three of us. So, it turns into something like this:

I am left to make myself comfortable in the wee corner of the couch still available, and attempt to drift gently to sleep. Which I would gladly do, except for one problem:

Our peachy poochie snores, with a force that can be measured by seismic instruments. And she refuses to sleep in any other room, because she gets nervous when il Roberto is out of town, too. Fabulous.

And now, I'm really tired, and verging on cranky, and wondering if it's too early to start checking the flight status of a plane that isn't due to arrive for five more hours.

Hurry home, Roberto. We need you.