At some point during the night, my one-year-old wakes up and begins to cry. I make my way down the ladder of our loft bed to his crib. I retrieve him, soothe him, maybe change a diaper, and try to get him back to sleep and into his crib. That last part only happens if I'm not totally dead-to-the-world tired. More often than not, after the diaper-change, I cuddle up with him on the couch, and we spend the remainder of the night there.
Last night was just such a night. 2 a.m. wake-up call, cuddling on the couch, and back to sleep. 4 a.m. I feel his little toddler hands banging against my back. Wham wham wham. He's sitting up and pushing me. I roll over and see his happy little face, eyes wide and smiling. What. The. Hell. He starts wriggling around on the couch, looking out the window. Of course the neighbors have their back porch light on, and he's staring at it.
I do the only thing I can think of (as my brain is not especially active at this point), gather him into my arms and start rocking him and humming the alphabet (song lyrics are beyond my ability at 4 a.m.). He's not fighting me, but he's not gong back to sleep either. Crap. More rocking. More humming. Eventually 5 a.m. rolls around and he drops off again. I've got one more hour before I need to get up and get ready for work.
At least he can stay crashed out on the couch while I shower and get everything ready for the day. I've become a pro at changing his clothes while he sleeps and he can sleep in the car on the 45 minute drive to daycare. It's like lugging a cute sack of potatoes around.
I, however, am a zombie.
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