In the middle of the night, Monchichi wailed for me. I buckled, which is no surprise because I’m being lazy on this issue, and let her in our bed.
When she settled in, there was a rustling sound next to her and some deep breathing. She sat up and asked, “who’s there mommy? Who’s there?” I laughed and didn’t immediately respond because a number of thoughts raced through my head. Because I paused, Monchichi asked again urgently, ”Who’s there, mommy?” I would too if someone couldn’t immediately tell me who that big, snoring lump in the bed was, except I would be much more frantic, as in “WHO’S IN THIS BED??” followed by “I KNOW KARATE!”
In the split second before I responded, I thought:
- Boy, my husband travels an awful lot if Monchichi doesn’t know who’s in the bed with me.
- Uh, I hope he didn’t hear her, because I don’t need him asking the ridiculous questions, “what does she mean who’s there? Who does she think is there? Do we need to talk to the milkman?”
- I wanted to say “Colin Firth” or “Alex O’Loughlin” (ladies, if you don’t know, he’s the newer, hotter Steve McGarrett on Hawaii Five-O and you must check him out.) because I thought it would be funny. Although my husband would say it’s not that I wanted to be funny but that my inner school-girl crush was wishing it. Ok, so what if that’s a little true? But then Monchichi would ask “who’s Colin Firth” And then I’d have to say “an actor” which would only prompt her to launch into a bunch of “why” questions and I thought, it’s the middle of the damn night, the set of questions would only keep me awake longer and she wouldn’t get the joke anyway.
So, I told her the truth. “It’s just daddy….who looks a lot like Anderson Cooper.”