Wednesday, August 6, 2014

Make Room for Baby Pt. III

This was supposed to be a two-part series. Just a compact chronicle of one of those rare occasions where the boy woke up in the middle of the night and then, rarer still, Mrs. Blackwell brought him into our bed. 

Yep, just two parts including all the hijinks that ensued when junior bunked with ma and pop. 

Two parts seemed necessary as all this FUN was just too much to cram into one blog post so, why not stretch it out? No more than that would be necessary though.

Pictured: my son's muse — at least between
the hours of 2 a.m. and 4 a.m.

And no more was necessary until 2:33 this past Monday night when the boy awoke with a roar — again. Furious anger motivated by what I can't imagine. Regardless of the fuel, his particular fire echoed and amplified off his bedroom walls and woke us both. 

Mrs. Blackwell later postulated that perhaps the boy had a bad dream. After consulting with the Internet a series of reliable academic sources, it seems that it's perfectly normal for kids about Master Blackwell's age to start having frightening dreams. 

How normal — or beneficial — is it to bring your child into your bed to assuage the effects said nightmare? Just ask Mrs. Blackwell because she did it again. 

That's right. There was the howl, the weeping, then my bedroom door creaking as my wife strode through the doorway toward our bed clutching her now chattering little parcel. 

Funny how that works. He cries — loudly — and then, when Mrs. Blackwell arrives and scoops him up for a middle-of-the-night trip to our room, the crying gives way to conversation. 

So, I once again found myself in the presence of a babbling, bubbly, perfectly happy little boy, ensconced in the warm, cushy blankets between my wife and I. He couldn't have been happier or chattier.

I can't remember everything he said (I neglected to pull out my pen and notepad when he arrived) though there were plenty of perfectly audible words. Again, he sounded quite cute. Making observations, rattling off Beatles song titles and, judging from his inflection, asking questions. 

So, there he lay talking to himself about nothing in particular the only feedback he received being from Mrs. Blackwell who tried (unsuccessfully) to suppress her giggling in the face of the boy's non-stop narrating. 

After who the hell knows how long the boy finally decided he wanted me in on the action and declared, "Waaake up daaa-deee! Waaake up daaa-deee!"

Yes I was tired and, as I usually am when awakened in the middle of the night, grumpy. But, this was pretty funny. I chuckled, rolled over and patted him on the back and, in general tried to engage him.

Perhaps sensing that his work was done, the boy then set out to get more comfortable. 

Who knew a toddler's little leg could swing with such force?
He turned, tossed, wound and wormed his way across the space between Mrs. Blackwell and I before finally resting his head on my lap and his feet in the space between our heads. Not content to simply drift off to sleep, he then began to bend his leg at the knee and then slam his lower leg into the mattress, making a "thwack" sound with each blow. 

The noise he was creating with this — it might as well have been a 2 x 4 getting smacked down on the mattress beside my ear — was unnerving. I got a bit scared of taking one off the face but I didn't have the wherewithal to put a stop to it. 

He alternated between legs for a time before his mother stepped in to stop him. 

Through my middle-of-the-night fog, I can't remember what exactly happened after this. I do know that, at one point, I proclaimed to my wife that "this can't keep happening."

She asked me what the alternative was and, frankly, I didn't have an answer. And, just as frankly, I don't have an answer now. 

My fuzziness gave way to sleep and the last memory is of Mrs. Blackwell taking the boy back to his room, him crying for a short time and then....silence. 

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