There is a sort of open-sided pouch hanging from one of the beams in our ceiling. It’s an IKEA product, something Robbi purchased long ago, thinking it was the sort of thing I would enjoy sitting in while watching sports on TV. Her intentions were good, but her vision was unrealized. First of all, the thing is tiny, leaving no room for adult shoulders. Watching televised sports while sitting in the hanging pouch would have meant frustration every time I felt the need to gesture enthusiastically. More important, though, is the fact that the kids have commandeered the hanging pouch. Because we have no yard, it’s the closest thing they have to a swing set, and they use it to do terrifying, death-defying things I cannot show photos of here for fear of child protective services removing them from my care.
They also use the pouch as Robbi intended. Not for watching sports, but for watching movies.
And for two out of our three children, “watching movies” is just shorthand for “falling asleep.”
I’m always tempted to leave them sleeping in the hanging pouch thing. It seems so cozy, womblike even. But waking in the pouch in the middle of the night might be an alarming experience, especially given that it is suspended several feet above the ground.
For her part, Iggy needs no special perch for the purpose of falling asleep.
I’m pretty sure that silent observation of our barndwelling shenanigans is Iggy’s version of “watching movies.”
The shenanigans are constant and unending. Just like Iggy’s sleep schedule.