That was me, thrashing about and screaming like a little girl in the middle of the night. A foot-long rat had dropped onto the comforter over my legs. The rat was scrambling around and jumping frantically, trying to get back from whence it came. Try though it might, it kept landing on my legs. I managed to roll out from under it, with it still tangled in the comforter.
Lillian, on the other hand, just before the rat dropped, was woken up by a huge spider that appeared on her chest, and was threatening to bite her. She thrashed about, too, but didn’t scream like a schoolgirl. She jumped out of the bed on her side, and I stood across from her with the vermin between us buried in the comforter.
After a couple “What was that?” and a few “No, it was a spider” and “No, that was a rat”s, we agreed to shake out the comforter, and to deal with whatever fell out. Gingerly, we took to the task, and after we shook out the comforter, nothing fell out.
We eventually had to accept the fact that we’d both vividly dreamt the critters. Her thrashing after encountering the spider probably causing me to feel the rat.
Chalk up another perk of parenthood: Daily exhaustion to the point of communal hysteria and delirium.