One Marriage, Two Beds

Sleeping separately doesn't have to mean we're not getting along

Deanna Hershiser

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"Why does Daddy always sleep on the couch?"

Our eight-year-old son's question makes my husband and me pause in the middle of our morning conversation. We raise eyebrows at each other across the table, recognizing a perfect TV-sitcom line and almost hearing studio audience guffaws. I clear my throat, suddenly beset by imaginary scenes: our little boy spills the "secret" to his teenage sister, who e-mails her grandma with tentative questions, while neighborhood kids snicker and our pastor calls to ask if we're doing OK.

Tim reassures our son. "Your mom and I still sleep in our bed together," he says. "Just not always anymore. We've got different reasons, like me getting too hot because Mommy needs more blankets, but everything's fine."

The simple explanation satisfies the child, but my reaction to his curiosity bothers me. I still worry about people discovering the change Tim and I made that allowed us both a better night's sleep. We didn't consider it the first 16 years of our wedded journey, although each of us endured more than temperature variations in our less than blissful bed-dom.

My husband, who suffers from tinitis, a constant ringing in his ears, holds the title for lightest sleeper on the planet. It helped him serving on a submarine years ago to be fully awake at a moment's notice, but it's a different story in bed, with a woman who tosses like a stormy sea and has been known to—um—snore. I, on the other hand, wake before dawn. Lying still awaiting the seven o'clock alarm makes me grit my teeth, imagining the things my morning energy could be accomplishing.

So we started sleeping apart. Tim and I agree it benefits us both. But what bugs me is the negative view people have of our innovation. No matter how you fluff the pillows, marriage and a double bed are supposed to go together. Cuddling under cover all night symbolizes modern romance, endless intimacy, love American-style.

While couples these days are applauded for sharing adventures from skydiver weddings to adopting children from overseas, a jointly decided separate bedding arrangement still brings worried expressions from friends. "I wish my husband wouldn't mention it," a lady at church whispered after her mate of 20-plus years told a group they sleep apart. She'd prefer that younger couples focus on the care and respect the two of them have for each other, rather than zeroing in on the "tarnish" of their detached nighttime proximity.

Tim and I recognized the stigma too. In a group of women, I find myself covering up the fact that I usually cover up alone. Tim's not bragging to the guys about how he grabs his blanket and pillow from the hall most nights to set up in the living room. It's like we've altered the rules of a secret society. We've besmirched a tradition dating back to Adam and Eve's shared goatskin. Can our marriage be healthy?

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Originally published in: Marriage Partnership, 1999, Winter

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