Someday in the distant future, Maia will be sleeping, peacefully, in her bed. Outside her window, with its sun-blocking curtains drawn tight, birds will begin thinking about singing good morning to one another. She’ll be in her teenage years, awkward and believing that no one understands her. She’ll feel like the world is unfair, and everyone’s out to get her.

Then I will display how the kismet of the universe plays out. I will sneak into her room, lie down on the floor (meaning I will have to shove all her clutter into a corner somewhere), and start flopping around and grunting. Maybe I’ll even suck loudly on my fist. I’ll continue this for a few minutes, increasingly loudly, until she rolls over and is like, “What the fudge, Mom? It’s like 5:30am. Go back to sleep.”

Rather than acknowledge or acquiesce to her perfectly reasonable request, I will fart at her before flopping around more insistently, and if she talks to me again I’ll either smile and squeal, or I’ll stare at her blankly as if to say “Are you talking to me? Seriously? How dare you!”

If she turns her back to me I’ll start to scream, and I won’t stop until she gets out of bed. Once she does, I will randomly stick my fingers in her eyes or nose or mouth for the next hour, while occasionally attempting to shove my toes into her belly button. The only thing that MAY relax me is if she walks around the house in endless circles with me, but even then, just when she’s been lulled into a sense of secure “Maybe I’ll get some sleep soon”, I’ll make sure to twitch wildly, shriek, and drool all over her shoulder.

Until, inexplicably, I collapse into sleep in the most contorted position possible, wherever and whenever I feel like it, because dammit all, I’m tired and I want to sleep and how dare she not realize that.

That day will be awesome.
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