Our last name is Roach.
I knew when I took it, life would forever change. I knew I'd have severe limitations when it comes to choosing names for my children. Ada, Ima, Sawyer, Harry, any kind of color like Gray or Violet are big fat NOs. (This list is constantly growing.) I also knew whenever I pop out a child, "Roach baby" is going to be written on the plastic carton that they wheel into my room. Gross. I knew I'd be saying, "Last name Roach, like the bug" at least once a day for the rest of time.
Little did I know, however, that our last name would haunt us in other ways.
Around two a.m. this morning, I was tucked away under the cubbies. Snug as a bug (no pun intended). Grahm (aka the blanket fiend) was sprawled out beside me. In my slumber daze, I shifted around. I remember thinking that our room was a little toasty, so I threw the comforter down at my toedangles. It was then I felt something move against my foot. "Probably nothing," I thought and returned back to my dreams of sugarplums and dancing fairies.
Two seconds later, I realized there was in fact SOMETHING down there.
I screamed bloody murder and leaped out of bed at an impressive speed. (Let's just say if my thunder thighs could run 26.2 miles that fast, there'd be a new Olympian for the USA.)
I ripped the covers off the bed to find...
A mammoth ROACH was crawling around, footloose and fancy free. I've never been so disgusted and horrified. You'd think we live in a stinkin' trailor park.
Grahm killed it, of course, and was able to fall asleep five minutes later. Not me. I was WIDE awake. There's literally NOTHING I am more terrified of than bugs (Hilarious, given my new last name). I kept wondering when its brother or mother was going to appear. Dear lord, if that wasn't the best/worst alarm clock ever.
Moral of the story: Roaches attract roaches, apparently. And never let your husband eat Oreos in bed.