Husband Charlie caught the summer cold (or whatever) that I had last week. He was up all night coughing and sniffling and nose blowing and tossing and turning. Of course I felt bad for him, because I was pretty miserable when I was going through it, but around midnight I was starting to get irritated with my sleepytime being constantly interrupted and by 3AM I was downright stabby. He went to the bathroom to get more tissues, and I picked up my pillow and retreated to the Room of Requirement, hoping to get a solid 2 hours in before the alarm went off.
A few minutes after my head hit the pillow, I started hearing scratching noises and meowing coming from downstairs. Darwin had managed to get himself locked in the laundry room. Rather than having to listen to the whining, I took pity on him and let him out. He repaid me by attacking and biting my feet and knocking things off the table and windowsill for the next hour.
Sigh. Cats.
I wish that we had designated naptimes throughout the day.
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