Fans

It’s obsessive, I realize, but I’m committed to at least attempting to post something every day (minus Sundays, of course). It’s a lot harder than I thought it would be, especially when I’m running behind the clock, like I have been the last few days. Again, I should be heading for bed (or finishing the last 9 pages of the transcript for my mom – it’s almost done, Mom; I promise). As I ruffle through the last 24 hours of possible writing material, I’m hard-pressed to find anything even slightly interesting or newsworthy. I’m listening to my husband snoring in the other room (where I really should be, nudging him to put his CPAP mask on). But this reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to write about: fans.

For me fans have been woven into my fabric from infancy, so don’t blame me or mock me in derision when I tell you that I sleep with one on, every single night of the year, even when it’s 20-something degrees outside. I have even thrown it inside my bathroom on super cold nights, propping the door open so that I still have the comfort of its fuzzy rumbling in the background. My mom is to blame here, though. When I was a baby, she turned on the window air-conditioner fan during my naptime, just to muffle the outside-play noises of my older brother and his friends. From that day on, I’ve been a fan junkie. I’m addicted for life. And I have actually endured several days at a time without the use of a fan, but only because of some absurdly paranormal circumstance, like the power being off or camping in the middle of Timbuktu. I can tolerate it, but it’s painful to be without that soft humming sound that lulls me instantly to sleep.

Some have criticized my addiction to fans, including even my now-choicelessly-fan-addicted husband (and I know choicelessly isn’t really a word, but you get my drift). However, when the neighbors complain about so-in-so’s loud all-night bash or the trains blaring endlessly at wicked hours of the night, I simply smile and think to myself, “I heard nothing; my fan masked all outside interruptions; I slept like a baby all night long.” The fact that my husband came with snoring and I came with this irreversible fan addiction has definitely proven we were destined for each other, a match made in heaven.

This fan addiction also worked like a charm when our girls slept in our room as newborns; I didn’t jump out of bed every 10 minutes when they turned over or made their strange little grunting noises. I was oblivious to anything but their furious wails for milk, the only really important points of the night I needed to be awakened anyway. This addiction has been, thus, translated to my children. They sleep with one every night and every naptime as well. It’s been a blessing, especially with all of the construction going on around us during the day. I’m always at peace with the knowledge that the roofers next door can pound their way across the house, and my girls will still remain blissfully unaware in La-La Land.

The only flaw in this system is when the power surges or when Edison decides naptime is the best time to get their work done or when a thunderstorm takes down a transformer. When the power goes out, I begin to sweat bullets, dreadfully anticipating their awakening, which is almost a given. Translation: it’s a crutch, a sleep aid; I realize this. It’s probably also the reason neither of my girls will sleep in the car or in someone’s arms; there’s no fan.