Musical Beds

I firmly believe that no child comes without Issues, and my five-year-old son has one that will probably surprise exactly none of you, since I can’t stop writing about it.

The kid won’t stay in his own bed.

He didn’t even sleep through the night until he was three years old. Let me repeat that.

HE DIDN’T SLEEP THROUGH THE NIGHT UNTIL HE WAS THREE YEARS OLD.

Looking back, I can say with certainty that I was a little crazier and more emotional during those years, and you can totally see it in my writing. Try not to judge me for my actions back then– Three years is a LONG time to go without a full night’s sleep, people.

Today, things are better, but at least once a week, Bruiser still shows up in our room at around 2 or 3 in the morning, asking to sleep with us. He crawls into our bed and spends the rest of the night kicking while turning in circles like the hands of a clock. Misery Ensues.

We’ve been coping with this fairly well, particularly after discovering that pillows can be very effective body armor, but there are certain times when it gets bad. Really bad. Last night was one of those times.

I knew it was coming, to some extent, because Bruiser had asked before going to bed if he could sleep with us. I said “No.” He looked upset. I felt bad and said, “Soon. But not tonight.” And to my son, “Soon” translates directly to “Not now, but try again at 2 am.”

Sure enough, at two in the morning, I was awakened by a tiny voice. “Can I sleep with you guys?” “Yes,” I muttered sleepily, moving over. Bruiser clambered into bed between my husband and me– only it wasn’t Bruiser.

IT WAS MY NEIGHBOR.

Just kidding.

It was my eight-year-old daughter. “I had a very bad dream,” she whispered as she snuggled in under the blankets. I patted her reassuringly. “Well, it’s over and you’re safe now,” I said, closing my eyes. Meanwhile, my daughter lay awake, blinking at the ceiling.

“I can’t stop thinking about Dottie,” she whispered after a few minutes. Dottie, our dog, sleeps in Punky’s bed each night, and was now all alone.

“She’s okay,” I whispered back. “If she weren’t, we’d know it. She’d be in here making noise.” Punky sighed and burrowed back down into the blankets. After a few minutes, I began to drift back into sleep.

“Can I sleep with you guys?” I opened my eyes. It was my son this time, at the foot of the bed. Dennis and I both sat up.

“I’ll go sleep in Punky’s bed,” Dennis said blearily. He got out and Bruiser climbed in. I looked at the clock. It was now 3 am. I tucked Bruiser in, while Punky climbed out of bed and went to the bathroom. She returned and we all lay down.

Two minutes later, Punky sat up. “I need to organize the pillow problem,” she said brightly, as if it were the middle of the afternoon. She hopped back out of bed and went to her room to trade pillows with Dennis. Once that was settled, she climbed back into our bed and had a brief argument with Bruiser over whether or not he’d be willing to scoot over and make more room. I got involved, laid down the law, and we all finally lay down. I closed my eyes. It was now 3:20am and I was exhausted.

WHUMP.

Bruiser sat up in bed, turned 180 degrees, and laid back down, this time on top of the covers. I was now unable to pull up the  blankets beyond my hips.

“Bruiser!” I whispered. “Turn around and get back under the covers.”

“Mmmmfgggle,” he said back sleepily. “I like it down hee-uh.” I tried to pull him back, but he was a dead weight. I yanked on the covers with all my might and managed to secure a little more of them for myself. I was miserable. And cold. But I was too tired to do anything more about it. I looked at the clock. 3:30. I had now been up for an hour and a half.

I curled up into a ball for warmth and squeezed my eyes shut. I needed SLEEP, dammit. SLEEP. Just as my thoughts began to scatter, the door to Punky’s bedroom opened. I heard Dottie’s dog tags clink as Dennis placed her outside the door. She had woken up, I later learned, when Dennis got into Punky’s bed, and proceeded to race around the bed until he put her out. For the rest of the night, my sleep was punctuated by kicks to the head from Bruiser and the clinking of dog tags as Dottie wandered forlornly about the room. At 6:30 this morning, my alarm went off and… let’s just say it wasn’t pretty.

It wasn’t pretty at all.

The moral of this story? There is no moral, except to say that I’m tired.

So tired.

Sooooo…. Sooooooo….

zzzzzzzzzzzzzz