While this title instantly gets me humming that awesome Eddie and the Cruisers tune (anyone?anyone?), I'm using it in it's more widely known context, ie: Darth Vader and all his little white robot people, or whatever they're called.
The point is, last night I woke in a sweat, fumbling for my glasses to see if, in fact, I'd woken up next to Darth Vader or possibly James Earl Jones. Surely that unmistakeable breathing belonged to one or the other.
But, no. It was Jax, stuffy-nosed and still sucking on his binky, his little ribs expanding with gusto every time he sucked in air, allowing no one within a 10 ft radius any peace.
Walking him back to his room, I tried to get him to give up the binky in favor of breathing, but he was having none of it. "I need it to sleep, Mom!" he protested.
"Yes, but you can't breathe, dude. If you aren't breathing, then you're not sleeping. You're dead."
You'd think the Dark Lord, of all people, would know that.