The Beast had a friend over yesterday and was really worked up last night. So of course he woke up in the middle of the night with a "bad dream" and his mother decided to let him "sleep" with us. He may sleep, at some point during nights like this, but I don't. It's impossible. It's not like you see on commercials and on sappy TV shows. When this little kid climbs into out bed in his feety pajamas all tired out and worried, maybe holding his stuffed dog, it looks all warm and fuzzy. Then you spend the next four hours realizing what it's like to sleep with a live salmon in your bed.
I've been trained by maddmom to sleep on my face, to reduce the snore factor, at two in the morning I was rabbit punched like a mofo about six times. Evidently I was in the way.
I pushed him over closer to his mother and went back to sleep, for about an hour.
At three AM, I felt something rough and COLD hit me in the back. It was the rubber feet on his pajamas. His feet may have been warm, but those rough slipper things were freezing and for some reason he was practicing tai kwon do on my kidneys. Not a great way to wake up. Again, I straightened him out on the bed, went to the can, pissed a quart of blood and tried to go back to sleep.
About half an hour later I awoke from a horrible dream where I had taken the place of Chekov in the "Wrath of Khan". I jumped about ten feet in the air, straight up. When I came down the Beast informed me that I had a lot of hair in my ears. If no one has ever used a wet willie to wake you up, you have no idea what terror is. I'm pretty sure this is how they get terrorists to talk at Gitmo. Freaked Me Out.
At this point, I gave him a warning. If he didn't go to sleep and quit flopping around, he was going back to his room. He didn't say anything, but curled up into a ball and pretended to go back to sleep.
I know he pretended, because right around four he was scratching at the hair on my chin. "Daddy", he says, "you have a beard." Not really true, I have several islands of unconnected whiskers on my face, more like large skin-colored moles, I'm sure that means I'm deficient in some way, but at four in the morning all I could say was, "Quit it and GO TO SLEEP!".
By four thirty he was singing something, and breathing on me. There is rerally nothing worse than the feeling that someone is taking all of your oxygen away from you as you sleep. I know at this point I should have taken him back to his room and put him to bed, but by now I was so tired all I wanted to do was to roll over and try my best to ignore him and hope his mother reached the annoyance threshold first.
At five o'clock he was sitting ON MY PILLOW and I was curled up un a five-inch square of mattress with no blankets. So I finally kicked him out of our bed, told him to go back to his room, not to turn on the light or wake up Skippy, who sleeps in there with him.
So at this point maddmom flops over, looks at me and says, "you should walk him back and tuck him in."
I know what I was thinking, but either I didn't say it, or maddmom fell back to sleep pretty fast because she's still speaking to me. I was still trying to get back to sleep when my alarm went off, I hit snooze and in the quiet, I could hear Skippy and the Beast downstairs in the kitchen, probably playing with knives, setting fires, climbing in the fridge or whatever else it is the two and five-year-old kids do when they are left alone in the kitchen. I don't really know, because what seemed like ten seconds later the alarm went off again and woke me up. This time I could definitely smell something cooking, the shower was running and it was damn close to seven o'clock. So I got up. the Prince was in the shower, Number Two was sitting on the kitchen counter making waffles in the toaster, the Beast was in his pajamas eating cereal and Skippy was running around with his pajamas unzipped and his diaper hanging on by one tab telling everyone he was wet. And he was, oh boy was he.
By 7:27 I was dropping the older three off at school, Skippy was in clean clothes eating breakfast and maddmom was out of bed and complaining that I never let her sleep in.
Sixteen cups of coffee later I wrote this guide to being a good parent. Eighteen more years...eighteen more years...
Labels: meddling kids