Francophonic

Two weeks ago, our newest french exchange student arrived. He is the brother of Sarah, the student we hosted last summer. Their nice family and ours have been in contact since she left, sending emails back and forth and Christmas cards. It was last November when they asked what we thought if their 19 year old son, Maxime could come and stay with us. He wants to improve his english too. Of course, being the Francophone wanna-be that I am I was happy to help. So, meet Maxime.

He's been here now for fourteen days and will stay through the end of April.

Now, let me digress for just a moment. I have a point and I will make it, but you need some background. For those of you who know me well, you have laughed while listening to Daren rattle off any number of stories of me sleep-walking and mostly sleep-talking. In 21 years of marriage, that man has certainly endured the strange and unusual; the gamut is wide and wonderful. Diverse stories ranging from borderline crazy to panic stricken. Things like bug swarms invading our bedroom and him helping me confirm that there is not a man standing outside our bedroom widow. (Wouldn't that be a fun question at 3 a.m.?) He has also brought me, his panic stricken wife, back to bed from the kitchen refrigerator listening to me explain that I just need an idea for a meal. I forgot that I have to feed lunch to the ENTIRE Cypresswood Stake after conference today.

He has endured me jumping out of bed, shouting, "Hurry it's a HIDE-12:16!!" And then dealt with my utter disgust as I headed to the basement without him because I could not wait for him in such an emergency.

But the best one of all is the time I called him in Phoenix at 2:00 a.m. He was fast asleep. Like I said, my call comes at 2:00 a.m., asking him if he can help me take delivery of all the world series t-shirts I accidentally shipped to our house instead of the Sports Authority in St. Louis, MO. (This was when I was working.) This time, when my subconscious kicked in and I realized what I was doing, I clearly remember hearing him say, "Are you kidding me? I can't even get away from it."

Yep. The poor man has endured it all. And to make matters worse, he is a light sleeper, so you can imagine what he has to put up with from me at night.

Stress, like a psychic calling out the dead, brings the worse out in me. And even after the initial stressful period has passed, for many nights afterward, I am stuck with night time antics until they have worked their way through my system like a bad rash.

If Daren is lucky, sometime during the night he can eventually tune me out. Then, I am left all alone to endure the confusion that is my REM sleep pattern. For your entertainment today, I am including last night's escapade. It is a variation of the same dream I have been having since Jan. 26th. Don't worry, it will make no sense, but hopefully it will make you laugh.

From my bed, I am awoken by me speaking french. Fluently, I might add because it is a dream after all. I am dutifully answering the questions posed to me by some french person or thing, I'm not quite sure exactly. That part is still fuzzy but in my mind they are completely important questions and I am doing my very best to answer. It feels like I am helping somebody and I am doing a pretty good job. When I finish my conversation, I go back to sleep.
An hour later, the same thing happens. And so it goes, all night long. Questions every hour; with me, answering in french. By 3:30 a.m., I am tired and my consciousness takes over. "What is happening?" I ask myself. "Who are these people?" "Can't someone else help for a while?"

Hey . . .wait a minute. What IS going on here?

How am I transmitting these messages? I am facing my computer - black screen - no motor humming. There is no phone in my hand. I see no one in the room.

I only hear my sweet husband, softly snoring. I guess this time he slept.