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April 28, 2012

Around 11:30 or midnight last night I started having odd dreams of being smashed and pushed, sometimes into walls, sometimes by a pool cue-wielding alien. I woke to discover a solemn Bobo standing by my side of the bed and earnestly trying to rouse me by repeatedly poking a finger into the side of my face. He stage whispered, “I had a nightmare, Mommy. Can I come and snuggle with you guys?”. I was exhausted from a long night of teaching so my parenting semaphore was clearly not working right–the waving-child-back-to-their-bedroom gesture was interpreted as a “come-on-in” and Bobo happily vaulted up into bed and I didn’t have the energy to correct him. Mistake. My child is amazing, but trying to sleep in the same bed with him is like being trapped with an attachment-disordered wombat. Cling, sigh, push away, knead parental back with feet, roll over and cling to parent again, talk in sleep about fondue. Okay, maybe wombats don’t do that last one. Anyway, we finally got him back to his own room after a few hours of this, but I am nose-deep already in what will be the first of many cups of French roast.


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