While I’m on the subject of my childhood sleeping habits, I feel I should tell the story of how I got a new bed at age 8.
We had recently moved into a new house, the first house my parents bought and where they lived until I was 21. Around this time, for whatever reason, I decided that I completely hated my bed and could no longer abide having to sleep in it every night. As part of a prolonged, peaceful protest, I began sleeping on the floor. I was very careful to do this in full view of my parents.
I began by sleeping in the hall directly outside my parents’ bedroom door, ensuring that they had to step over me every morning. I was soon told that this was no longer allowed, as my mother frequently either tripped over me due to her lack of coffee or willfully stepped upon me in her effort to quash my rebellion. Undaunted, I slept in my own doorway with my head poking out into the hallway. This only took a few months before I was gifted with a new daybed. I was a happy, happy child, oh yes. Did they finally get tired of seeing me, in all my pathetic glory, sleeping on the floor like an orphan? I’m still not sure. But I surely did feel victorious.