The Battle For the Bed

Little Man does not sleep in his fucking bed. Never has. This was not the plan.

 

It’s always been terrible, now that I look back on it. As a baby he would drift off into sleep, happily¬†sucking on Lady K’s boob. Then around 2 or 3 AM, you would swear the little fucker was getting murdered. We would bolt out of bed, Lady K would be in an extreme panic (kind how she approaches every would-be emergency) and faster than our own sound we were in his room. And then he was in our bed. Sucking on boob. Try and get him out now.

 

But this was a phase, we thought. He would grow out of it. We were wrong. When he got to bottles, we figured that was it. We were wrong. When he moved to the toddler room at his school, we figured he was a big boy now, he could sleep on his own. We were wrong. And now he is three fucking years old.

 

And yes, we tried everything.

 

Three years. For three years we have not had our fucking bed. For three years I’ve been getting kicked in the face as I lie in bed, as I fall asleep, when I’m in the middle of a dream, when the alarm clock goes off, when it doesn’t. I’ve grown accustomed to it. Mom gets snuggles.

 

But then, a few months ago, he turned a corner. Now he won’t even go to bed. Now he insists that you sleep with him right away in our bed. The five-hour window we had come to love, when we could truly chill, when both kids were asleep, was now gone. We were heartbroken. And beyond frustrated. Now it took until 11 for him to fall sleep so we could sneak out. To be fair, it was mostly Lady K that he wanted. But at times he had no choice. Every mom needs to drink.

 

When we insisted that he sleep in his own room, he would climb out of bed, trudge downstairs and declare that he was done sleeping and was now here to play with us. When we would get angry, he would sit at the top of the stairs and cry. I truly saw no end to this.

 

And then we were saved.

 

This night started the same as every night. He sat all curled up at the top of the stairs, weeping his big blue eyes out. We screamed from downstairs for him to go to bed. It had gotten to this again. Then Miss M, who was in her room reading a book, one of her many loves, comes out and sits next to Little Man. She holds his hand, speaks quietly to him. He eventually stops crying. She takes him, by the hand, to her room, tucks him in her bed and reads to an exhausted, Little Man until he falls asleep. It’s magic.

 

And so we see an opportunity. We suggest they do it again the next night. And it works. Both kiddies go to bed happy. They play for a while, Miss M reads to Little Man, they fall asleep all snuggled, squishing into each other, trying to be as close as possible. And this now happens every night. Sure, there are many times they play too long or Little Man gets out of control and needs to be taken out. He cries desperately and begs to stay. Miss M always takes him back.

 

The love of a brother and sister is a truly beautiful thing. The take care of each other, they create worlds together, they battle demons together. I can only think of one thing more beautiful.

 

We got our fucking bed back.

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