I have a confession to make. Another one. A while back, I wrote about how I secretly enjoy bringing Riley into my bed after his 4:00 a.m. nightmares about stickers and cookies and other frightening things [insert sarcasm]. In that post, I also wrote about how Dylan never comes in my bed, but I’d jump at the chance to do it now that I realize how quickly he’s growing up.
Well, I take it back. Dylan is a horrible bed mate. He doesn’t revel in the wonder and mystery of Mommy and Daddy’s king-sized bed like his younger brother, he doesn’t appreciate the mountain of soft pillows and fuzzy blankets, and he doesn’t cherish the chance to curl up safely next to the belly in which he once grew.
This morning, he also didn’t understand how utterly and completely exhausted he was (and I was) after our zoo adventure yesterday. At 5:30 a.m. (which still feels like 4:30 a.m., thank you very much), I gave Dylan the choice to (a) play in his bed or (b) come with me to mine. Going to the family room to watch the Power Rangers was not an option.
Staying in his bed would have been the smart decision. Currently in his bed are: 50 or so squinkies, a dozen books, a lamp, a portable DVD player with Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Squeakquel (don’t get judgy…the DVD player is only allowed on non-school nights) and a cup of water. If he had a few snacks, he could probably survive a week there.
He chose (b). I knew there would be little sleep for me no matter what he chose, but I naively welcomed the chance to snuggle with my little boy. Fast forward forty-five minutes and we were in the family room watching Power Rangers with Riley, who also woke up too early. Rewind a bit and this was the scene in my bed:
Dylan (in an astonishingly loud whisper as only a five-year-old kid can do): “Mommy, is it time to watch the Power Rangers?”
Me (in a whisper yell as only a Tired Mama can do): “No.”
Dylan: “Mommy, look outside. It’s morning time.”
Me: “No, that’s the glow of the moon. Close your eyes. You need to sleep a little bit longer.”
Dylan: “Is two minutes a little bit longer?”
Dylan: “Mommy, is it time yet?”
(Cue Riley’s crying.)
Me: “Yes, it’s time.”
The truth is, unlike Riley, Dylan is no fun at all to bring into my bed in the wee hours of the morning. He does, however, give great hugs on demand, you can (almost) always trust his pinky promises, and his dance moves are fierce. That’s a pretty good tradeoff.