By now most of you know of Russ's special sleep-talking gift, right? How he likes to conk off with the Sandman and then yell out kooky things at the top of his lungs, then wanna fight me WWF-style if I so much as crack a smile at his ridiculousness...oh, and then in the morning have no memory of any of it. He used to claim I was "making it up" until the little polarized incident, when he had undeniable proof of his antics the next morning on his neck and arms. Ah, carpet burns, I'm forever indebted to you.
Well, last night he decided to mix it up a bit.
I heard him in there watching TV. Then I heard him snoring. And then I heard him talking. Which I knew meant he was sleep-talking. Which, of course, was my cue to put down my book, jump up off the sofa, and prepare to be entertained!
I walk in there, all Spidey-like so as to not disturb the Comedy Routine, and there he sits, just saying normal stuff. ...Well, that's not true. Not NORMAL stuff. Not, "Hey, I like this episode of The Office", but not "Hot.Itchy.CHICKEN!!!" either. This time he's muttering numbers...equations, maybe?...something that sounds like real-deal information.
I think, Hey! Maybe if I write this mess down and then read it back to him in the morning, he'll have further proof that he really does fly his freak flag at night. Maybe he'll stop thinking I'm participating in a creative writing assignment just to crack up the masses. Maybe, just maybe, he'll believe me and stop giving me the "right, Kristy...uh huh, sure" look when I relay his funny Russellness back to him the next day.
So, that's what I do. I write it down. I stand beside him while he's talking - smiling, nodding, taking dictation, like the ever-dutiful assistant. And this morning over breakfast, I whip out my handy-dandy post-it note and ask with a sly grin, "Russ? What does blah blah blobbity blah..." mean?
The boy froze mid-spoonful of Cocoa Crisps. The color drained from his face. A tiny drop of milk fell from his lip.
"Where did you hear that, Kristy?"
"Uhhh... From you. You said it last night. And I wrote it down, so you could translate it for me this morning. ...Why? What is it?"
That was around the time my ever-sweet, ever-mild-mannered husband gently but firmly removed the post-it note from my hand and tore it into confetti bits into the trashcan.
Did I mention Russ works in national security, as a nuclear weapons scientist? Our "How was your day, dear?" talk at the end of the day pretty much consists of, "Good. It was good. Yours?" I can jabber on like a monkey in a tree about Sophie and her daily shenanigans. Russell can't really reciprocate. It's a little like being married to Arnold in "True Lies", only without the funny accent or Bad Guy chases on horses up teeny, cramped elevators.
Turns out what I wrote down wasn't the code to the vault at the Lab or the Kill Plan for one of our enemy country's nuclear weapons. Turns out it was gibberish. A swirl of Russ's locker combination from middle school, his birth date, and the lyrics from "Jenny"...867-5-3 oh niiiiine. But apparently I hit a nerve because he did ask me to never, EVER write down anything he said again. Never. Ever. Especially if it had anything to do with numbers. Lest he have to kill me.
When you put it that way.