Everything spun out of control on my day off.
I wanted to spend some time with the spawn, so I kept him home from day care and brought him on my morning errands. He followed me around the house as I cleaned, and managed to be cute enough to keep me from throwing his toilet-water-soaked train at him (the fifth time it took a swim). Evening-ish time rolled around and … ahh, time for dinner, a shower, and the sweet, sweet release of sleepytime … right? Yep, you guessed it: WRONG.
I was so very, very wrong.
11:15. 12:25. 2:00. 3:03. 4:15.
4:15 is when I broke.
Pulling the two-year-old ball of screaming and clinging from behind the baby gate and into our room, he morphed into a happy, playing alter ego. Then he altered (yet again) into the smallest thing in the world to take up an entire queen-sized bed.
I’ve never been an advocate of children sleeping with their parents. Sure, bad dreams happen. Once in awhile, most things are excusable. I always figured moderation is the key. But now … I mean, I’m still sure that moderation is the key. It’s just that the meaning of moderation seems to have changed lately. It’s not so moderately turning into every other night. Or every night. And just when I think the pattern has rearranged itself … it hasn’t.
Is this a phase? Is this the intangible parent figure’s way of punishing me for judging those who’s kids slept with them? Am I screwing my kid up? And when (for the love of god) will I get to sleep without something in Thomas the Train jammies in my personal space?
