Saying my children share a room is an embellishment. My Manhattan kiddies share a nook not legally called a bedroom because it lacks a window. A small four by four window peering into an air shaft would qualify the space as a bedroom, but alas, we just have French doors with frosted glass enclosing the two into the small space.
The cribs are close together. Less than a foot separates the space so narrow that my toddler daughter must turn sideways to squeeze into the gap that divides their respective beds. Naturally, the kids communicate to each other in the evening. On nights when my two exhaust me I will listen to the chatter upstairs with a glass of wine in my hand.
On one particular evening I had muted the television to decipher if the noise emanating from the children’s room was one that necessitated attention. With no shrieks or shrills I resumed my television viewing. Eventually I could no longer ignore the odd sounds so I ventured towards the room.
It sounded like my son was breathing heavily, almost snoring. A sound too great to be produced by an 18 month old. As I approached the room cursing that last sip of wine I was filled with a combination of dread and relief. The noise was not from the kids’ room but another room in the house.
With great caution I began to walk into my room wondering how anybody would have been able to enter. On the floor of my bathroom a long purple vibrator rattled the shower wall.
I laughed wondering which of my children pulled out the machine and how it appeared to have turned on hours after I put the kids to the bed, grateful my son was too young to ask what it is.