I’m a light sleeper—partly because I have four kids and I’m always on the lookout for late-night disturbances, like when one of them runs into our room to announce an unfortunate bout of vomiting. My caffeine habit doesn’t help either; I consume way too much Diet Coke, leading to frequent restroom trips at night. But the real culprit behind my sleep deprivation is my dear husband, who lies next to me, blissfully dreaming while producing sounds that resemble a lawn mower attempting to start repeatedly.
Snoring is far from charming. At 3 a.m., I don’t find myself thinking, “Oh, how adorable he looks with his mouth agape, breathing deeply!” No! Instead, I’m calculating how long I’d be sentenced if I were to smother him with his own ergonomic pillow.
Over our 15 years of marriage, I’ve tried numerous strategies to combat the snoring. I’ve resorted to shaking the bed to jolt him awake without fully rousing him. He may shift positions temporarily, but the snoring always returns. Sometimes, I give him a gentle nudge to adjust his head or take off his covers to make him chilly and encourage movement. On particularly tough nights, I just lie there, wallowing in my frustration, hoping he’ll accidentally roll off the bed.
The situation worsens when our five-year-old daughter decides to join us in the middle of the night—an all-too-frequent occurrence. Since my husband rarely hears her sneak in, I try not to wake him. I carefully shift to the center of the bed to make room for her, hoping we can all settle back down without much fuss. She has this adorable habit of holding my face while she sleeps, which is lovely until she and her father start “dueling banjos” with their snores. Picture me wedged in between two snoring giants, feeling utterly exasperated.
And don’t even suggest I take her back to her room! That would wake the dog, who would then demand to go outside, leading me to confront the woods behind our yard where coyotes have been spotted—no thank you! So, I let her stay, muttering Hail Marys in the hopes of catching a few z’s.
Before you ask, yes, we’ve tried every remedy on the market—the strips, the patches, the tablets, you name it. They’re all gimmicks. My husband has mastered this snoring art, and if it were an Olympic sport, he’d be bringing home gold medals without a doubt.
As a light sleeper, the irony is that if I don’t hear him snoring, I start to panic, fearing he might be dead beside me. So what do I do? I grab my phone and shine the flashlight on him to check for movement. If I can’t see his chest rising and falling, I lean in closer to listen for breaths. Thankfully, he’s always been alive during these checks—otherwise, this story would take a very different turn. But then, when I confirm he’s alive, I get annoyed at him for being quiet and making me worry. It seems entirely justified; who wants to think there’s a corpse next to them at 3 a.m.?
Once I finally manage to shift him enough to silence the snoring, I close my eyes, drifting into sweet dreams. Just as I’m about to win the lottery in my dreams, the snoring kicks back in, and I completely lose it, thrashing around and yelling, “Stop snoring!” He turns to me, bewildered, and asks, “What?”
And that, Your Honor, is why I believe my reactions are completely justified.
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Summary
This humorous piece details the struggles of a light sleeper married to a chronic snorer. The author shares her desperate attempts to manage her husband’s loud snoring while balancing the chaos of family life, including dealing with their daughter sneaking into their bed at night. The narrative captures the relatable frustrations of sleep deprivation and the often humorous situations that arise in a busy household.
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