Since the day he was born, my little miracle baby was a fitful sleeper. And now, even though he’s almost two, it’s rare that something doesn’t wake him up in the middle of the night. When the problem first arose, I had a few theories…
1. Demonic Possession – Never rule it out.
2. Swine Flu – It’s out there, people.
3. Robots – They’re coming for us all.
But then I saw this thing on the New York Times‘ parenting site about kids having bad dreams. I didn’t actually read it (it’s going to take more than just a deep concern for my child to get me to actually read an entire article), but it occurred to me that it might be bad dreams that’s getting my boy up at night.
So last week, because I’m one of the best parents in the world, I kept a log of what happened in order to get to the bottom of the problem…
MONDAY:
Woke up crying at 11pm, screaming for “Mommy”. Not sure who that is. I let him cry it out.
TUESDAY:
Woke up crying at 2am. I got up, asked him what was wrong. “Bunny!” he yelled. His stuffed rabbit seemed to have gotten out of the crib somehow. I put the bunny back in his crib. “No,” my son whispered like that kid in The Sixth Sense. “The bunny’s not dead.”
Pretty weird.
WEDNESDAY:
I was awoken at about 3am. The boy was babbling loudly. I went into his room and told him to quiet down. He said, “How can I be quiet when Lady Mary and Matthew are unable to be the lovers they were meant to be? And what’s to become of the Downton Abbey waitstaff with all their sundry doodads and whatnots?!”
No idea what he’s talking about.
THURSDAY:
This time the boy woke me up in the middle of the night screaming, “Go Sharks! Smash ’em!” I rushed into his room. He was dreaming. I gently woke him up and asked him what was wrong. He said that he was starting to have regrets about his weekend tipping for the National Rugby League matches.
I reminded him that I couldn’t understand him when he spoke Australian (he was born here in Sydney; I was born in America). He grabbed me by the shirt and said, “Do you understand the two pineapples I’ve got riding on this game, ya drongo?!”
What?
FRIDAY:
Another 3am wake up. The boy was calling out desperately for “Daddy”, which I assume meant me. I got up, went to his room and asked him if he was having a nightmare. “Yes,” he said. “It was horrible. I dreamed that you had a serious weight problem and couldn’t fit into a size 32 and were forced to buy size 33, kidding yourself that you’re not actually a size 34 and headed for 36 pretty soon with the way you eat ice cream by yourself in the bathroom.”
I tried to tell him that it was just a dream and I didn’t actually have such a bad weight problem. “Don’t you?” he said, and looked at my stomach.
In the end, I tried to help my son with his bad dreams, but ended up getting made fun of for being extraordinarily heavy. But that’s part of being a father and I wouldn’t trade any of it for the world.
Well, I’d trade the fat jibes. I’d trade them for almost anything. They sting, you guys.
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For a lot more of this sort of thing, check out Daddy’s Little Miracle.