I’ve written before about the night shift in my house. Between Dylan, Riley and Harry’s nighttime escapades, getting a good night of sleep can be difficult. Add to that my bouts of Anxious Mama insomnia and, well, forget about it.
At 5:40am this morning, I heard something moving around in my room. Harry paces when he wants to be let out. If we ignore the pacing, he scratches his collar, which jingles his tag and makes just enough noise to irritate one of us enough to get out of bed.
The noise this morning, though, was different. Something was quietly shifting around the room. Still, I assumed it was Harry and tried to ignore it. Then “it” got closer to my side of the bed and the shifting sounded more like the scrunching sound a diaper makes when a little diaper-wearing person moves one pudgy, squishy leg in front of the other. Then “it” said, “Mommy, I have to tell you something.”
“It” was Riley. What did he have to tell me? “I want milk.” It was 5:42am.
Normally this type of event would irk me, but lately I’ve had fleeting moments where I’ve realized the baby years I’ve been wishing away (because they’ve been so damn hard) are actually going to end soon. I’ve also realized that, as my boys get older, so am I.
So, while Riley’s early morning appearance was unfortunate, it was also adorable. It was the first time he ever got out of his bed and wandered into our room on his own in the dark. I scooped him up and asked him if he wanted to lie down with Mommy and Daddy. He said yes, but within seconds he reminded us that what he really wanted was his milk.
I have something to tell you. The night shift just got more complicated in my house. But it’s okay, because it’s a sign that my babies are still babies and that there’s still a chance I might get carded at the liquor store.
The Runaway Mama by Jen Gregory 