Please don’t tell me you sleep here.

OK, I won’t. But, I do. I have for … a while. As basements go, I could do a lot worse. The couch however has seen better days.

When my daughter insisted she wanted a sleepover with eight friends there was only one place they could reasonably go. Of course you can have a sleepover with your friends. Promise you’ll be careful. She promises.

That night a steady stream of teenage girls parade up and down the stairs to retrieve snacks and refill drinks. With fingers crossed I sleep upstairs for the first time in a long time. Children’s beds aren’t meant for adult bodies. But then … neither are most couches.

Next morning, I survey the scene. Sleeping bags and clothes are scattered around. Bits of popcorn and nacho chips are sprinkled like fairy dust over everything. The couch now sports a dark soggy stain.

Updating this basement cost me. It was money I intended for other things. That’s life though, right? At least one thing in my life improved. It was a new blank space – a new opportunity – in an old house already bursting at the seams. I’m quick to carve out the territory as mine. I keep it minimal and uncluttered – or as minimal as someone with children can realistically get. Someone calls it my “man-cave.” I hate that term. It’s not entirely inaccurate though. It’s white walls, white birch flooring (laminate), wainscoting painted white with gray accents reflect my taste. I even get a whitish faux oriental rug. It’s my de-facto apartment, the place were I spend a majority of my time awake or asleep.

Periodically I’m reminded that no matter how nice it appears, it’s still a basement: the sound of the furnace a few feet away clicking and firing up; the taps, clangs and gurgles of steam pipes overhead in the winter; the low ceilings; the sound of a critter gnawing in the walls nearby; or the night I awake to find a creepy crawly thing skittering across the rug in the darkness.

And then of course, there’s the couch. It’s almost twenty years old, stained and lumpy. The fresh cover provides a veneer of newness, but does nothing for the worn, deflated cushions. It still satisfies as something to sit on, but I miss being in a real bed.

My daughters have stopped asking my why I sleep in the basement. I tell them it’s insomnia. Not entirely untrue. Sleep has been a problem for about as long as I’ve been on the couch – longer actually. A nightly dose of melatonin generally helps. The underlying reason I’m there is more fundamental.

One day, my parents visit. Let’s see the new basement! They’re impressed. Nice work. Great vision. What’s that? I’ve left my sleeping bag out. My dad stares at it and says nothing. A day later, my brother calls. “I hear you’re living in your basement …”

It’s all I have right now. And I guard and maintain it jealously. So when I find the basement and my bed soiled and mistreated I call my daughter out. And she lashes back. “I thought you said this was gonna be a family room? Why do you even sleep down there anyway?” No more sleepovers if you can’t respect the space.

“Not fair!” she declares. And she has a point. She can’t really control her friends, but my bed/couch is filled with chips and Cheetos and Coca-cola. She needs to clean it up, make it right … fix it.

“Fine! Fine …. and by the way, you’re losing your hair.”

Tell me something I don’t know.