Off the Cuff: Blankety-blank

Elusive, desirable and frequently unfaithful late in the night. That's my blanket. Just when needed the most, it curls up around and under he who sleeps furthest away.

At bedtime, the boys and I climb into the 'big' bed rather than their own for a story or two, prayers and sometimes a song. Each must have his favourite story, some of which dissolves into sheer babble as I am only half conscious.

The prayers are over in a flash and the singing continues until they both run out of requests or I snap. 'Blankie' waits its turn with ominous patience.

As we settle down to the serious business of getting to sleep, both the boys insist that they don't need the blanket as it's way too hot, even with the air conditioning on full. Famous last words. We go to sleep with me, and only me, under the blanket.

During the Twilight Zone, strange things happen. Hours later I wake in that groggy, dream state induced by the notion of having something important to do before morning, and not having a clue what it is, and also because of a distinctly uncomfortable numbing sensation in my toes. As I battle the powerful forces of beckoning slumber, reality gradually dawns.

The husband is on the floor, clinging to a pillow and in foetal position, blissfully unaware that he has been pushed off the edge of the bed. My eldest is at the said edge with most of the blanket cocooning him, and the remaining part snaked under the younger one, who lies spread-eagled, ice-cold and leaden, smack in the middle of the bed.

His head rests on his brother's back and his feet are propped up on my belly. Surreptitious efforts at rescuing part of the blanket from under its captor are met with grunts and kicks. Kicks that find my nose.

Eventually, the blanket is coaxed out from its hiding place and stretches just enough to cover my toes and half of my body. I make sure its pulled taut and tent-like over 'Iceman' without touching him.

In vain, I cower for a few minutes before breathing is necessary and the blanket tension loosens so that material meets flesh. Iceman promptly kicks the precious shroud down, tramples on it and I watch helplessly as my little bit of cover slithers off and I am once more exposed to the elements.

Fully awake and freezing, I suddenly remember what it was that needed to be done before morning. Retrieve the comforter from the other room.

Fast nearing cryogenic conditions, Iceman was still unapologetically occupying most of the bed space, although the position had changed to a diagonal one rather than perpendicular.

Once more, I spent considerably energy making sure he was barely covered, before tiptoeing over to the other room. After a quick grab and a dash back, the blanket has once again magically settled underneath Iceman.

Fed up, cold and tired, I make like larva inside the rolled up comforter and turn my back, only to hear a soft, sleepy voice pipe up just behind me with, 'Mama, can I have some of the 'comfortabbel?'