What time was it? Perhaps 4 am.
I am vaguely aware of my bedroom door opening. I hear, “Mommy?” It’s Katie. I am so far down in the depths of slumber that I don’t answer.
Again, “Mommy?” She doesn’t sound hurt, frightened, sick. I know what she wants. I’m still silent, but I am also more awake now.
A third time, “Mommy?” I realize she just won’t go away without a response. I manage to garble out a muffled, “Huh?”
“I had a bad dream. Can I sleep on your floor?” Years ago, she would repeat this request every.single.night. We finally told her she always had permission to sleep on our floor, using our decorative shams as pillows, as long as she came in without waking us up. And so she did, often bringing Jenny in tow. But sometime, I don’t know when exactly – 6 months ago perhaps – her nighttime game of musical beds tapered off and stopped.
Since Bill left, I expected her to start up again, but she held off until the last week or two. Apparently, she has forgotten the do not disturb rule.
It amuses me when people ask about how old babies are before they sleep through the night. In the last 3 months, each of my children, except for Billy, has disturbed me at least once in the middle of the night.
This is probably another one of those things that people with grown children assure me I will miss one day. I’m not buying it.