Wednesday, May 8, 2013

My 5 a.m. Wake-Up Call

Berzo wakes up fussing. Since my cognitive function—isn't, my instincts take over as I crawl around on my bed seeking Berzo's familiar heat signature and smell. I find her, pull her close and wait for her to return to slumber land.

She starts talking, “I make a big poop. I poop in my diaper. I load-ded my diaper.”

I peel my eyes open and glance at the window. Judging from the corona around the black-out blanket it’s light outside, but my circadian rhythm is pulling me back into sweet, blessed sleep. I fight the pull and decide to consult my watch: 5:02 a.m.

I slur, “Ug—Berzo, it’s night, night time. Go back to sleep. Time for sleep.”

Although the official sunrise isn't until 5:49 a.m. my little sundial senses the light outside and is sure she should be casting a shadow somewhere. She continues talking about pooping. My foggy mind alerts me to sniff the air; no poo smell. I silently thank God I don’t have to get up and change her diaper right now.

She must be referring to last night's debacle. After 45 minutes of reading books, singing and lying in a dark room, she pooped. I was less than thrilled that my not-sleeping-toddler now needed to be changed. After another half hour and a change of guard, she’s asleep. Her little mind must have been churning on it all night.

“I make a big, big poop.”

I’m not making this stuff up.

My sleep drunk mind formed the words, “Ssssh, baby, sleep time.” I put my hand on her lips. She pulled my hand away and continued talking. I started to despair and rolled over plugging my ears. Randomly slurring, “Go to sleep, Berzo.” At one point I toss my Nook to her, hoping she’ll play some of the apps, but then remember they’re all dysfunctional because of the last OS update.

 “Mama, you help.”

At about 6 a.m. she leaves the room saying, “I go say hi to Papa.  I’m going.” She closes the door. Papa is already at work; images of all the various ways in which she could hurt herself or choke start flashing in my sleep/wake dreams. Then I can hear her talking to Boots, “Good morning, sis-ster.”

A few moments later I hear Boots say, “Berzo, GO TO BED!  Berzo get out of here and go to bed!” Berzo had climbed up on Boots' bed, slung her leg over Boots' peacefully sleeping form and bounced on her like she was riding a horse. I hear Berzo squeal and laugh. A laugh-snort escapes me and I hug my pillow and nuzzle in.

Soon after both girls came in for a snuggle. We laid in bed until Berzo started squealing every time Boots touched me and I decide to call it a day—or would it be night?  

It's 6:15 a.m.  Only 14 hours until bedtime. **YAWN**

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