It’s always something

That face just about says it all, doesn’t it? The heavy eyes, the sheen of snot on the upper lip, the petulant mouth. Someone little is sick, and tired, and some bigger people are sick and tired of the sick and tired.

Just to complicate things, we’ve begun the transition from the crib to the “big boy bed” — in Rowan’s room, no less. Ideally, I would have waited until our nights and our health were a little more stable — until, say, Rachel and I were actually sleeping in our bed, together, instead of trading off peaceful subterranean versus potentially chaotic upstairs nighttimes — but these developments have a way of choosing their own times. Isaac screams if we put him in the crib, but settles happily in a bed in Rowan’s room, and so be it.

“Settles happily,” does not mean, however, “settles in for a long, refreshing, full night’s sleep.” Which is why I had a toddlerific companion in my bed (Rachel, of course, was in the basement, nursing a sinus infection) from about 11 p.m. to six this morning, with a bonus visit from Rowan, requesting cuddles at 2:30.

And, you know, I tried to be all “glass half-full” about it. But the best I could do, as I lay quietly on my third of the bed, stifling my coughs and subtly repositioning myself in order not to wake the boy, was wry amusement and acceptance. I mean, he’s cute. And, I asked myself, how many more times in my life will I have the sweet, sleeping body of a tiny, trusting boy next to me in bed? Gotta be precious, don’t they, those times? I willed that great big overwhelming well of love to rise up and wash over the two of us, drenching us in perfect, solid, blissful sleep.

But mostly, I just thought, “Meh.”