OK, this literally just happened. Husband is working late. Two children asleep; five year old in his bed, two year old in my (her) bed. I hear crying … not sure from which miniature body it’s coming. I wait … it heightens. I run up the stairs fast, assuming it’s the two year old and I move with the swiftness of a gazelle (I totally did!), so that I can get to her quickly. If her crying escalates, big brother will be awake too. And with one of me and two of them, I am down for the count, or at least an hour. In mid-stride I hear it’s my daughter, I turn into my doorway and bowl over a human body, a small-ish one. My son. Standing just inside the doorway of my room in complete darkness. He falls, I yell something that at this very holy time of year should not be uttered around children.
At this point, I am so freaked, I think my heart comes out my nose, which isn’t entirely that much different from childbirth, I realize now. In any case, I also strongly say to my son, “What are you doing?” His response? “What are YOU doing?” Hmmm.
Apparently, he was sleep-walking, or wandering around our three upstairs bedrooms in the dark, looking for Santa? Another nightmare about the Elf on a Shelf? Whatever the case my be, I now not only have two little bodies in my bed, neither of which are my own or my husband’s, but this completely proves what I always thought to be true: these two are trying to kill their precious, loving, fragile mother. Serenity now.