Every night when I go to bed I have to leave a crack in my bedroom door. Just slightly ajar.
Just wide enough so that I can see the landing.
Just wide enough so that I can see if a child gets up in the night.
Just wide enough so that the invisible tie that binds me to both of my children can snake around the architrave and into each of their rooms. For I make sure that they too have a crack in their doors.
Husband just doesn’t get it. Sure he indulges me. But I can see him raising his eyes to the ceiling when I pretend to get out of bed to fetch something after he’s shut that door right to. Click.
He knows I don’t really need something. He knows it’s a ruse. But I cannot sleep if that door remains shut. Like it’s this huge, cold steel barrier between us – not the flimsy wooden door which, on any given Saturday morning, I can hear them giggling behind like it’s paper when I’m trying to have a lie in.
So we play the silly game. He shuts the door; I get up and ‘change the thermostat’.
I’ve always had exceptionally good sleepers. It’s rare one of them wakes but if they do I know about it instantly.
And they’re grown up now. Dan is at Middle School for goodness sake. He’s Independent. They don’t need me to hover around them when they get up in the night for a drink or a wee.
They don’t need me to tuck them back into bed and make sure the door is left slightly ajar when they’ve finished.
But I do and I don’t want to stop.
I know it’s unreasonable but I don’t care. It’s my comfort and means I sleep soundly every night.
Knowing there is just the slightest crack in the door.