I forgot to mention that my husband is in on it, too.
Not every night, but often enough to keep me on my toes, Chris will start thrashing around and throw himself, ninja-like, onto all fours. Where he will proceed to panic-breathe and start to pat frantically around him (you know what's around him, right? Sheets. And me.), or push me over, or try to pull my covers off.
So I have to yell at him. Not for his sake. For mine. Because the man just woke me up out of dead sleep for no damn reason.
And he will pause in his rustling.
And he will stop.
But he is still on all fours, so I have to say, firmly, "LAY DOWN."
And he will lay down.
And then go peacefully back to sleep whilst I am left wide awake, heart pounding.
But we do have our little routine. Last night, though, he decided to mix it up a little. After he thrashed his graceful ninja-self up on all fours, he crouched over me, looking RIGHT IN MY FACE.
Not creepy at all.
So I say, "CHRIS!" Because Jesus Christ, man, I had just fallen asleep after hours of Owen-induced, air conditioner-assisted, PTSD.
And he backs off a little and says, in a sincere I'm-a-little-worried-about-your-craziness tone, "Are you doing all right?"
"I'm FINE when I don't have to wake up with you on TOP of me!"
That sounded bad. But it's what I said, and, anyway, it'd probably be true then, too.
He replies, "I wasn't on top of you!"
"Yes you were!"
"Oh, okay, I suppose you are just hanging out on your hands and knees at one in the morning because you are concerned about how I'm doing? Lay down and go to sleep."
And so he did, and so I, eventually, did too. But sometimes I wish I could activate a personal nighttime force field.