The Tingster has been having an awful time sleeping at nights. She'll fall asleep with no problem, but she'll wake around 2 am or 3 am, grumpy and in pain. She will cry out for me, but you know me - a parade of elephants blowing on trombones marching past my bed won't wake me up. So poor SanSan is the one who is sent to fetch me, as her bedroom connects with her sister's bedrom via a "Jack and Jill bathroom," so she can hear the Tingster's wailing much easier. Except the poor child is terrified of the dark, so she tears from her room at one end of the hallway to our room at lightning speed, hoping and praying all the while that the heebie jeebies won't get her while she summons help for her invalid little sister.
Once SanSan delivers the message to me and scurries back to the safety of her room, I'll grumble a bit and get out of bed and stumble to the Tingster's room. To which I am greeted with a proclaimation such as the one I received on Sunday night: "I called for you 24 times! Where were youuuu?" Asleep, kid, I was asleep. And having a pretty damn good dream, from what I can recall. So then I'll groggily pick her up, stuffed animals and boo-boo and pillow and all, and then carry her back to my room. It's a wonder the two of us don't tumble down the stairs in the process, considering that I'm walking around with my eyes closed and swaying about drunkily with a 50-pound lump of sleepiness wrapped in flannel Disney princess PJs in my arms.
So then I'll lay her down in my bed, only to have her announce, "I hafta go to the bafroom." OK, now I am seeing the attraction of bedpans. So I lug her into my arms again, carry her two miles to my bathroom (stupid huge-ass master bedroom with stupid walk-up stairs to the stupid sitting room, which I have to cross to get to the stupid "bafroom"), where I plop her down on the toilet and she proceeds to do her stuff, all while I stand there with an aching back, shuffling from one foot to another because the tile floor is just too damn cold for my paws.
So then she proclaims she is done, and I heave her back into my arms, and we trip back to bed, at which point she snuggles into the down comforter while I climb in beside her, snap off the lights, and then lie there, completely wide awake and cursing the gods of sleepiness for having failed my daughter and me once again. And then, just as I'm about to punch my pillow one more time - or storm out of bed and go to the guest bedroom to yell at the hubbie and blame him for everything, as it is definitely his fault - the Tingster rolls over, places a chubby hand on my cheek, and kisses me on the other cheek, and grins at me, "I love you, Mama." And with that simple act, all my complaining ceases, and I think to myself that I could wake up every night for the rest of my life for such greetings.
Of course, I am still wide awake, but that's beside the point ...
