They say that the witching hour is at 3am. You know, the time when all the spirits are most active and haunting up a storm. The documentary I watched, this weekend, about classic horror films and their relative curses, had a different theory. Although no less f**ked up. It theorized that it is the time that the devil wakes you up, every night, to create exhaustion, which is the first step of possession. I mean, why bother? New parents are up at 3am and every 2 hours before and after that, minimum. Wait......does that mean we are all possessed? Don't ask my kids that. Or my husband.
You know what happens at 3am, in my house? I am awoken by a child’s hand smacking me right across my resting, un-possessed face. And then it just lays there, palm to the ceiling and dead weight. As I attempt to calm my thundering heart from the unexpected assault, I feel the warmth of child breath on my cheek. I know, instantly, that he has done it again. As my senses begin to regain focus, I can feel him tucked against my side and my arm twisted at a unnatural angle. Well, what I can feel of it, anyways. The tingle in my fingers is the only thing that tells me that my arm is still attached to my body, at all. As I stare, cross-eyed, at the chubby forearm splayed across my vision, the ghost that haunts me stirs. You better take him back to his bed, or he is going to sleep with you forever. Anxiety's whisper menacing, her eyes glowing red. Nothing says scary like a panicked poltergeist. And then, I make the decision that exhaustion, warmth and the eerie hours of the morning compel me to. I use my good arm and remove my sweet baby's arm. I slide his slumbering form to the center of the bed and straighten out my other arm for blood flow. I let the sound of his breathing drown out Anxiety's creepy whispers. I mean, he is only going to be this small for so long, right?
"Gasp." Eyes fly open, while I am struggling to catch my breath. My hand flies to the site of the strike, where I feel a wee foot. The clock reads 3:45 am. My tiny interloper has now shifted so that he is laying diagonally, placing him in a prime position for a good soccer kick to the gut. I hold the perfect foot, in my hand, guarding from further attack and weighing my options. Do I have to pee? No. Is it cold AF outside of this bed? Yes. Well, that solves it. I shift my little horizontal hero back to his proper spot. Everyone's favorite demon, otherwise known as Anxiety, makes sure to make her presence known. You should bring him back to his bed. You are not going to get any sleep and you have to be up in a few hours. Her head turning a full 180. You don't scare me, I think, as I shuffle over to the very edge of the bed to try and protect myself.
And so it goes, until dawn. A head on my stomach, a knee in my side, a head on my face. Yes, you heard that right. He used my face......as a pillow. Should I feel flattered? Ya, you know, I have a really comfortable face. No biggy. That one was super disorienting. It is strange to wake up, with the back of someone's head on your face. Did I take him to his bed, at that time? Nope. No I did not. What would be the point? I got up mere moments later, feeling the effects of the early hours scuffle. I move my sweet boy, for the last time, into my warm, vacant spot and tuck him in. Let’s be honest, he was already half way there.
“I can’t keep doing this.” I mutter to my husband, as I drag my exhausted ass to the washroom. He lays there, blissfully unaware of the previous night's occurrences. King-sized bed, shming-sized bed. I wish I was ending this post, declaring that this was the last night that I let one of my littles crawl in with us. But, that would be an un-possessed lie. The witching hour? A real thing. Just not to do with devils or ghosts. Well, except for the panicked poltergeist, but she roams at all hours. More to do with parents and their restless co-sleepers. They are only little, for so long. I could do with a little less pillow face, though.
Does Mommy need to lose her shit?
Not this week.
“I can’t keep doing this.” I mutter to my husband, as I drag my exhausted ass to the washroom. He lays there, blissfully unaware of the previous night's occurrences. King-sized bed, shming-sized bed. I wish I was ending this post, declaring that this was the last night that I let one of my littles crawl in with us. But, that would be an un-possessed lie. The witching hour? A real thing. Just not to do with devils or ghosts. Well, except for the panicked poltergeist, but she roams at all hours. More to do with parents and their restless co-sleepers. They are only little, for so long. I could do with a little less pillow face, though.
Does Mommy need to lose her shit?
Not this week.
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