For the last two weeks, Everett has been waking up two and three times a night—screaming—then he's up again at 5:30 a.m. Again, screaming. This from a child who used to sleep soundly from 7:30 p.m. to 7:30 a.m.
Chuck's been out of town for work, so it's just me and the shithead in the wee morning hours.
My ass is dragging so much I can't think of anything funny to say about where my ass actually is.
This morning, I needed something. I couldn't chug a beer (or, rather, I didn't). I don't huff caffeine—or anything else for that matter—and the water wasn't even boiling yet for the coffee press. I don't smoke. So I grabbed a Dove chocolate bar and shoved it into my mouth.
It was creamy wonderfulness.
As good as it was, it didn't remedy what's been ailing me. In fact, nothing has remedied Everett's crappy sleep schedule. I've tried everything, from checking for new teeth, to checking for soiled diapers. From checking for fevers, to checking for Charlie horses.
None of the above.
I've tried feeding him more. Feeding him less. Changing his bedding. Dressing him more cooly. Dressing him more warmly. Letting him cry. Picking him up. Giving him more stuffed animals. Giving him more fans. Putting him down sooner. Putting him down later. He likes cats; I even thought about putting cat pictures on the wall.
You get the idea.
Then, today, I asked Junior if he knew why Everett was waking up screaming.
"It's creepy in his bedroom," he said.
"It's too dark."
"So you wouldn't want to sleep in there?"
Tonight, I busted out the night lights. I left the curtains open. I left on the bathroom light.
So far, so good. Granted, it's only 8:30 p.m. but from what I can tell from downstairs, he seems to be sleeping soundly.
Ah, wait. I'm getting a message. Yes! Yes! My ass is upstairs and just confirmed it: Everett is sound asleep.
(Amazing how having children makes opportunities for butt jokes strangely irresistible.)