I awoke late the other night to find I was not alone in bed.
Down around my knees, with his back firmly braced against my legs, was our basset-beagle who sometimes responds to the name Homer. His drool-soaked jowls flapped as he snuffled and snored.
Beside me, with her face firmly pressed into the back of my neck, was my 5-year-old daughter. Her warm, gentle exhalations had made the nape of my neck begin to sweat.
Next to her was my son, who had somehow managed to twist and angle his body so that his feet were firmly implanted in the small of my back (I’m sure for warmth). He mumbled incomprehensibly in his sleep.
What is going on here? I wondered. What are we, a pack of dogs?
Maybe the kids had a bizarre collective nightmare or maybe their rooms had inexplicably turned into iceboxes, I don’t know, but with the hound breathing like he had a collapsed lung and my neck beading with condensation and my son’s feet in my back feeling as if I’d fallen asleep wearing a fanny pack, I was none too comfortable.
This is ridiculous, I thought. A man ought to be able to sleep comfortably in his own bed in his own house, for crying out loud.
I noticed my wife had fended for herself and quietly fled, probably to claim one of the kids’ beds all to herself.
Well, this absolutely could not stand.
I turned to nudge my son awake and instruct him back to his room. My daughter I would carry to hers. Homer could take to the floor.
But then I caught a clear look at the kids’ faces, how serene they were in sleep, how without concern. I noticed the steady rhythm of their breathing and the soothing quietness and warmth that enveloped the room. Even the drooling hound seemed content. It occurred to me that here was a moment of complete calm, almost tranquility. I was touched by some eternal quality the moment carried. How often do you come across moments like this one? I wondered. And to think I almost slept through it.
So, all right, fine. Son, daughter and dog could stay. I couldn’t find it in me to end abruptly a moment that made me feel some connection to the eternal. That would have been callous, maybe even cruel, I thought. So I turned back on my side, tugged a little more blanket my way and returned to sleep, relishing a new-found comfort rather than dwelling on the discomfort of feet in my back and hot breath on my neck.
I slept well and without worry.
And didn’t give it another thought until a few days later when I learned from a magazine article by a child psychologist that I may have done my children irreparable harm by not returning them to their own beds forthwith.
I had no idea there was a great debate about what the article called the “family bed” or “co-sleeping.” The psychologist argued that allowing children to sleep with their parents fostered poor sleep habits in the kids, disrupted marital relations, and discouraged children from becoming independent. Children, he argued with the support of studies, should not sleep in their parents’ bed with the possible exception of if they’re sick.
Holy cow, I thought, what have I done?
I turned to the Internet, and that was a mistake. There I found others arguing that the “family bed” was healthy for young children. I found books written on the subject. Whole books. My mind spun with the weight of being a parent because this new information on the “family bed” made it clear that even the simplest decisions I make might screw my kids up for life.
But then I remembered the feeling of that moment and realized I wouldn’t go back and break it.
I stopped reading arguments in the “family bed” debate.
Sometimes maybe we think too much, I decided. Sometimes we need to trust our gut.
Sometimes it may be best to just pull the covers over our heads and go back to sleep.
