In the Still of the Night

Dillon and I didn't sleep well.

In the crib: Dillon has learned to turn himself over from stomach to back. Unfortunately for all parties, the reverse is proving a bit more complicated. Set to sleep on his stomach, he flips and wakes and cannot go back to sleep.

In the guest bed: I crawl into the bed in the guest room certain that sleep will come swiftly after an early morning and a long day. I read until I am quite sure my eyelids will droop closed before the next word and turn off the light. Immediately, my eyes open wide in the inky darkness.

In the crib: Dillon draws his knees up under him and then shoves his feet back, twists on his side and rolls against that left arm that is never quite in the right position to turn. He wobbles against it until he is on his back.

In the guest bed: I fight the sheets and blankets, alternating between hot and cold. This bed used to be my brother's bed. I used to seek refuge there when the dark of night and all the monsters lurking there struck fear in me. And now, all the anxieties are swirling around in my brain, a persistent hum against the black.

In the crib: Dillon can put the pacifier in his mouth, but he forgets to let go and jerks it out again. We call it the Paci-Monster.

In the guest bed: I see plastic stars stuck to the ceiling by the previous owner's kid. Without my glasses, I can only make out the faint smudge of flourescent above me. In a trick of poor eyesight and darkness, it looks a little like the night sky until all of the light in them recedes to nothingness.

In the crib: Sometimes, Dillon just wants to know someone is there.

In the guest bed: I try not to think about the hours passing. I breathe deeply. I try to imagine somewhere peaceful. But the serenity fades and I end up counting my anxieties, fluffy little insecurities herding through my mind.

In the crib: Dillon cries loudly and I am up and in the hallway before I'm really concious of moving. I hope to save Eva from a trip to the nursery. He's all twisted up in the blanket, and I'm working to untangle him when she arrives. In mere seconds, she scoops and flips him like a baby pancake and has the pacifier in his mouth before he hits the crib again.

After four and before seven, we drift in and out, finding the edge of dreams but always jerked back by the insecurity of being flat on our back, anxious that we are alone and unable to pacify ourselves long enough to fall back asleep.