She’s my third baby. I’m pregnant with number four. So when I’m awaken by that cry. You know the one. The, “I’m awake there is nothing wrong with me I just don’t want to sleep here anymore and I will get louder and louder until you come and get me!” cry.
I love my sleep. I can sleep anywhere, anytime… except when the stupid smoke detector goes off at 3 am. Beep. Beep. BEEP!
My husband, who is more of the light sleeper, usually wakes up, grabs the Little Ladybug and brings her to our bed. To which she will crawl on me, push me off my pillow, and kick me repeatedly in my stomach… back… face.
“I’M STILL CRYING I’M NOT GOING BACK TO SLEEP SOMEONE COME GET ME NOW!”
It was clear, my husband was KO’d, so as with an extremely unwelcome smoke detector, I was up, blindly making my way to the crib where the Little Ladybug awaits. Arms up, “It’s about time!” She smiles.
Back in bed. A twenty pound snuggle bear now resting on my chest. Sleep. Let’s go back to sleep.
Am I dreaming? Why am I awake? What is that little squeak?
No, it’s a squeal. It’s getting louder. I am currently cradling the edge of my bed with a pair of baby feet stretched out. One in my neck. The other in my boobs.
It’s a child. MY child. He’s awake. Why is he awake?
I’m up. I’m up.
Again, I blindly make my way to one of my child’s beds. His eyes are closed but he still squeals. Seriously, what is it with these piercing noises in the middle of the night?!
I urge him, my curly-topped four-year-old, to get up and go pee. “I’ll help you,” I encourage. He doesn’t move. My mommy patience is totally running thin. “C’mon buddy,” I say as I start to pick him up.
The middle-of-the-night fog is weighing heavy on my brain. “You need to go poopy?”
“Poop.” He points.
I look at him. Look in the direction of his finger. The fog lightens slightly. Is he saying he pooped? I pull back his pull-up and take a look. It’s pitch black and I don’t have my glasses on. I put my face as close to his rear-end as I can without putting my nose directly in his diaper. Poop. Yep, poop. Fog lifted.
I pick up the poopy mongrel. Plop him in the bathroom. Track down the necessities to clean the messiness. Dispose of the diaper. Find new jammies. Pick up and plop the now clean boy back in his bed. To which he requests, “Can you sleep for a bit?” and strokes my hand. Oh, the heartstrings.
So down I lay, in a pee-stentched full-size bed and rest my head on a Tigger stuffed animal. Sleep. Let’s go back to sleep.
“Ring, ring, ring. Dun…dun..dun…dun. Ring, ring, ring.”
What the…? Once again, I awaken in the middle-of-the-night fog to see a red light shining from the floor. This red light is not beeping. It’s singing. Then, with help from the light of the bathroom, I see a small little person walking past and start heading up the stairs.
Quickly, I’m out of bed, running up the stairs to catch the Little Ladybug who is obviously in her own little fog searching for her mommy. “Here I am sweetie.” I pick her up. Snuggle her. And pray the sleep, let’s go back to sleep prayer one more time.
“Good night, boys.” I urge to the two little boys who are now both awake and laughing at their sleep-walking sister. “SHHH!” I insist. No mommy patience left.
Sleep. Let’s go to sleep.
Back in my bed. Baby on my chest. Conveniently laying with her butt on my baby bump and her head next to mine, on my pillow. I hear her sweet, deep, I’m sleeping breaths.
Just as I am praising Jesus for answering my sleep, let’s go back to sleep prayer, my loving, caring, darling husband who up to this point has slept through the cries, squeals, poop, ringing toys, sleep walking, and laughter, rolls over. He sees the twenty pound snuggle bear on my chest, uses all his energy to instruct, “Don’t let her sleep on you like that.”
Thankfully he was back to sleep before he could see what finger I was shooting in his direction.
Sleep. Let’s go to sleep.