Insult and injury

This week Sacha has developed an unfortunate habit of waking at that dreaded unnamed hour, when the sky is just beginning to lighten around the edges. When this happens I dare not look at the clock, because it will only confirm that although my sleep has been effectively ended, it is still far from time to start my day.

I think these mid-night wakings are due to a combination of daylight savings and a few too many nights of eating a late dinner, but whatever the reason, they have resulted in a seemingly endless loop of sheet washing — perhaps some semi-secular alliance between god, the water utility and a shadow arm of the Coin Laundry Association are having a laugh at my expense. More than once this week I've stripped Sacha out of wet pajamas, and brought him up to my bed. I could change his sheets and put him back in his bed, but I am constitutionally opposed to doing laundry in the middle of the night. Hope springs eternal, and I am unwilling to risk what little chance I have of falling back to sleep for the sake of housework.

While a middle of the night snuggle with a delicious child is decent consolation for disrupted sleep, recent experience has taught me that even this innocent act is not without risk. A few weeks ago when Sacha had an accident, Gabriel was already in our bed, so I tucked Sacha into Gabriel's bed and laid down with him for a few minutes. Sometimes, it's like a French bedroom farce around here. Sacha could not get back to sleep, and several failed attempts to make my exit later, I decided the only reasonable thing to do was to slip him a mickey give him a tablet of melatonin.*

He quickly grew still, but as I tried to extricate myself from his bed he popped up once again. At this point I accepted that there was no way I was getting back to my bed, got myself a melatonin and settled back in with Sacha. Just as I was drifting off to sleep, I felt a hot stream of urine hit the small of my back. Now, two beds were wet, and I was wide awake. I walked stiffly back to my room in my cold wet nightgown, changed my bedclothes, and got into my warm, dry bed. As I pulled the covers up to my chin and exhaled, David's alarm rang.

And so, with some trepidation, as I carry my son up the stairs to my bedroom, I issue a silent prayer that nothing, or no one, gets pissed on. Because if this goes on much longer, I may take to sleeping in rubber fetish gear, which would have the advantage of being both and practical and sexy.

*There are drugs that save, or vastly improve the quality of lives, and while I can't claim melatonin has done either, I still consider it a miraculous substance. Before we started giving it to Sacha at bedtime, it could take him hours to fall asleep. Although he was never loud or disruptive, he would lay quietly in wait, and every night, as I checked on him on my way up to bed, he scared the shit out of me when he popped up and gave me a hug.