For the last few weeks, in the hottest nights of summer, I have let the boys snuggle up on the floor in my room instead of sleeping in their stuffy top bunks.  I’ve got this wonderful cross breeze happening from my writing studio, into my bedroom and whispering into the hallway, and it’s kind of a dreamy place to sleep.

Dreamy and cool.  Some might say ‘cold.’

Anyone who ever shares a bed with me will need to come to terms with the fact that I sleep best in a cold room.  Blame this on the survival methods of adaptation; I was once married to a man who slept with three fans blowing directly on us in an air-conditioned room.

I am very much not about (I love how horribly defiant that phrase is to all things grammar and active voice) children sleeping in my bed.  But to have them on the floor around me?   There’s been something very beautiful about that.

When I read about these families who slept twelve in a one-room house, I can see some of the beauty in that.

All the chicks are in one nest.  All the cubs are in the cave.

There’s something whole about it.  It’s hard to imagine loneliness there.

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