A Wee Martyr Complex

Sometimes I call my husband FiFi. This is enjoyable because it is a legitimate shortening of his name but it pisses him right off.
So last night, as I was hovering over him at around one in the morning, begging him to come and sleep in the bed with me, it might not have been the BEST move, but I couldn't help myself.
(Here is the part where I write my dissertation on why it's perfectly healthy for men and women to sleep in separate beds. Except I'm not gonna. Our bed is too small and we can't afford a new one right now, and I have been sick, so some nights he sleeps on the futon, and some nights he sleeps in the bed with me.)
Anyway, I have sleep issues. Major, major ones. And lately with all the stress of the surgery, I have a horrible time falling asleep and a horrible time staying asleep, peppered with horrible nightmares.
Then when I'm not having nightmares, I'm remembering the ones I had that scared the stuffing outta me, which is what happened last night. I went to lock the door, and remembered this horrible nightmare I had (after watching Batman Begins) about how the middle school near our house was an insane asylum and they decided to just release all the inmates into my neighborhood, so I ran all the way home with my neighbor girl, and we were safe, but then that night I went to lock the doors and there was a crazy lady standing right outside my door, in between the screen and the door, and...well, you can see how that memory upset me.
(I was going to see how long I could make that run-on, but I gave up.)
So that is how I came to be wheedling, "FiFi, will you sleep in the beeeeeeeed with meeee, pleeeease?" at one in the morning. And then he muttered and grumbled and whined and said that I needed to get up with Leila if she cried, and I said yes...except that I couldnt' lift her out of her crib to change her diaper because my back hurt so much. And also maybe I slept through her crying that other time.
Sorry, FiFi. I loooooooove you!