Oooh no. Not tonight. Tonight your two-year-old woke up and decided to give you an ear-piercing reminder of what it's like to have a six-month old in the house.
|Pictured: wake up time.|
Alright, enough with the third-person perspective. I'm sure some of you can relate to this and for those of you who can't, I'm envious. And, now for the second part of first-person account.
After a dramatic — and shrill — entrance into our bedroom the boy found himself comfortably ensconced between his parents. Snuggled in his soft, cotton PJs lying atop our bed, the boy did his best to keep mom and dad awake.
"Ob-la-di?" he asked, requesting a Beatles song, or just saying it to say it.
"OK! OK! Yeah," he continued as Mrs. Blackwell and I lay silent, captive to this neverending, nonsensical, narrative.
I'll admit, it sounded cute but, dammit, I needed sleep. After what felt like 30 minutes the chatter subsided.
One might think that things would get easier from here but, not on this night, not with this kid. No sir.
Apparently the boy has some requirements in order to achieve R.E.M. whilst bunking with mom and dad. Chief amongst these prerequisites is an ungodly amount of space. Accordingly, the boy extended his arms, his legs and every other inch of his 3-foot frame in all directions.
|Make the kid about 20 percent bigger and rotate|
90 degrees counterclockwise and you get
This is followed by the next requirement, awkward body positioning of comic proportions. As he dozes off the boy rolls, wiggles and winds his way around the bed before taking the final little step into dreamland.
In this case the boy ended up lying with his head in my back and his legs on Mrs. Blackwell's waist. (Viewed from above, we'd have formed the letter H across the bed.) Ever try sleeping with a toddler's head jammed into your back?
To top it off the boy weighs in at about 30 lbs now. I'd estimate that about a third of that is his head — it's big folks.
Once he'd claimed all the bed turf he wanted, the boy was — finally — comfortable. And, like any fellow who's in the middle of a deep, warm sleep he starts to snore. Not like a cute toddler either. He's loud and far from cute.
Defeated, frustrated and — God help me — awake, I did my best to move away from the boy and release the pressure of his head on my back, while also grabbing a second pillow to rest over my ear and drown out the snoring.
After what felt like another hour (or about 90 minutes from when I was supposed to be awake) I was drifting ever so close to real, genuine, sleep. It was then that I was jostled from behind by a stiff shove to my shoulder.
It was Mrs. Blackwell. "Honey, honey?" she said with another prod before adding, "You're snoring."
And with that, I was completely awake again.