As Jerry Seinfeld once said, ‘I have a tendancy to get chilly.’ Poor circulation, thin blood, global warming, whatever. I don’t know why. It’s especially true when I’m sleeping, even during the summer. I need a blanket when I sleep; Kelly’s this close to making me use the spare bedroom.

Ian’s a furnace. He just radiates heat; remember Firestarter? I always check the doorknob before entering his room. The glow-in-the-dark stars covering his ceiling actually twinkle. He’s a very exothermic child.

Part of the problem is that his bedroom is quite small, and has poor air conditioning and circulation. We’ve compounded this problem by upgrading him to a lofted bed with a heavy, canvas tent. But even in the depths of winter, his head is still bathed in sweat after falling asleep in the car.

Yet he insists on blankets. Sometimes two. St. Louis gets horribly muggy in summertime, but Ian just can’t do without his thermal coverage. Right now his bed has a kingly blanket: red velvet lined with white, spotted fir. (We bought it at IKEA before he was born, and before his love of pirates.) He must have this blanket, or everyone will suffer the consequences.

Last night, after we’d put Ian to bed, I realized that I’d forgotten to take him to the bathroom. This comes with its own set of bleary-eyed consequences. I went to wake him—it’d only been an hour—and he was drenched. From heat to foot, he was one long, sweaty, sopping mess. After less than an hour of sleep! And he seems to enjoy this!

If anyone sees Drew Barrymore, tell her to give me a call. I have questions.