I felt tiny warm breath on my face at 12:30 this a.m. I peeked out from beneath my Zorro sleeping mask to see the somber face of my 5 year old staring a hole into me. Willing me awake.
“Shhh, mom, don’t say anything.”
This is the 5 year old who has the good sense to go to the side of the bed where the marshmallow is sleeping. The marshmallow generally doesn’t threaten the life of his little Blues Clues Blanket when being unceremoniously awakened from blessed slumber.
He bids me to follow him down the hall with his pointer finger. When safely out of earshot of the other occupant in my bed, he announces, “Mom, my batteries need to be changed.”
This has nothing to do with his big boy night time sleeping diaper. But rather his mobile crib music, the one with the soothing jungle sounds, and animatronic wild life. It’s the same musical mobile that hung on the side of his crib, and now graces the railing of his loft bed. Because it brings him comfort.
It creeps me out, but no one asks my opinion when choosing sleeping options like macabre musical mobiles or the fact that JENSEN SLEEPS UP HIGH. 5 YEARS OLD IS TOO YOUNG TO SLEEP NEAR THE CEILING FAN. REMEMBER, THIS IS JENSEN WE’RE TALKING ABOUT.
But I’ve let it go. Really.
He climbed back into his berth and I demonstrated for him that the musical mobile worked just fine and did not need new batteries at all. He insisted to the contrary, coming unglued because evidently when the mobile starts to lose battery power, the little animatronic jungle creatures go all slow motion and scary looking, and the music gets slow and weird and JUST CHANGE THE FREAKING BATTERIES.
I know better than to attempt logic at dark thirty. I climbed up on the loft bed to retrieve the mobile, and landed on a Barbie car when I descended. It’s a wonder I didn’t end up breaking my good leg. I fished the “C” batteries out of the top shelf of the laundry room and went to the kitchen to seek out the Phillips screwdriver.
If you have the impression that I did all of this cheerfully, chalking it all up to my motherly duty, you would be wrong. Because my cuss jar? It overfloweth in the dark of night.
I finished my task and rehung the Jungle Music and bid my son goodnight while I stumbled back to bed.
It took a sweet forever to fall back to sleep. And when I was blissfully ensconced in REM sleep, around 2:30 in the a.m., I heard, “Psst, mom, don’t say anything, but I have to go poo-poo.”
I don’t understand why he needs an audience when he poops. Especially in the middle of the night. When I don’t make for a very supportive audience. But it was a false alarm. There was no pooping.
That’s when I threatened the life of his little Blues Clues Blanket if he didn’t get his little rear end back in bed and stay there.
The marshmallow is developing a spine.
My motherhood manual did not tell me that I would be sleep deprived for the duration of childhood. And beyond.
I’m switching sides of the bed tonight, just to shake things up a little. And I’m thinking that if anyone breathes on me I might just sit bolt upright and start screaming.
That oughta teach ’em.
My own personal parenting manual will be out next year. I’ll be taking pre-orders so that I might be able to pay for my children’s therapy.