Even if there is a trail of cinnamon rolls and you hear Ryan Reynolds screaming, "I'm willing and ready!" Do NOT enter your parents' bedroom (although do your best to lure Ryan Reynolds out with those cinnamon rolls.).
We were never a family that climbed into our parents' bed on a Saturday or Sunday morning for tickle fights, pillow fights, a morning reading of the comics or late night movies. When there was a storm, our parents came to our bedrooms to make sure we were okay. My parents' bedroom was always a place that was off-limits without actually being off-limits.
When I was in just a youngin', an innocent little pig tailed girl in the third grade, the worst possible thing happened: I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of my parents'-pausing for a moment to puke-having sex. Even at that young age, I somehow had a vague idea of what was going on and rushed from my bed (my room was right next to their's) to the bathroom to puke. Seriously.
For some reason, probably because the Fates hate me, my parents hate me, I don't know but this pattern was repeated. Frequently. To the point that I was terrified to go to sleep at night. I woke at the tiniest sound, would quickly flick on a light so my parents would know I was awake and lay in my bed, my heart pounding out of my ribs. These, um, episodes, scarred me so badly that I have no slept through the night since third grade, at least when I've been under my parents' roof. It's been 15 years, I'm slightly tired.
Moving back to my parents' house, I wasn't overly concerned with it. They are, after all, in their 50s, I would be sleeping downstairs and Gus would be sleeping upstairs in my old room. Yes, this is the part of the story where disaster strikes. I went into my parents' room earlier this week to look for a book my mom had borrowed from me months ago. While looking for it on her nightstand, I glanced at my dad's nightstand to see what he was reading...and instead saw a bottle of KY Jelly. VOMIT. Than last night, while I was attempting to fall asleep, I heard them going at it. Fifteen years later and it still gives me the willies and makes me puke in my mouth.
As horrific as the whole 15 year experience has been, I definitely don't want my son going through anything remotely close to it. Yes, he's not even 2 yet but I'm not taking any risks, which is why Gus will now be sleeping in my room with me, downstairs. Of course, my parents are curious as to the move so tonight, in approximately 30 minutes, we will be discussing it. I can only imagine how glorious that conversation will be:
Me: You two are having too loud of sex. You have been since I was in the third grade. It scarred me so bad that I have been in therapy since 4th grade and I don't want to take any risks with my son so his room is now downstairs. Dessert anyone?
Dear God, my family is royally f*ed up.
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