Last weekend's family column

The web person at the Patriot Ledger was on vacation last week, and my column was never published online (harrumph!) Here it is. For the record, the bad dreams seem to have passed for a while.

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As a parent, I’m used to the pitter-patter of little feet. Said pittering and pattering is a normal, expected and welcomed part of the soundscape of our home. The exception is when the pits and pats come down the stairs between midnight and 5:00 a.m., as they’ve been doing a lot lately.

My nine-year-old never has gotten out of her bed at night in her life. (The exception: two bouts of sleepwalking, a creepy behavior which disappeared as soon as her tonsils were removed, which was, in a way, even creepier.) My six-year-old has been a very good sleeper, aside from a couple of bouts of nocturnal illness. My little guy, however, has gotten out of bed more in his five years than the fifteen years of the other two combined.

The boys’ bedroom is directly over my husband’s and mine. I’ve learned I have about 45 seconds from the initial thump of the feet hitting the floor to the apparition at my bedside. The ensuing exchange typically goes like this:

“Mom?”

“Yes, honey?” (Maybe if I close my eyes again he’ll disappear.)

“I had a bad dream.”

“You did?”

“Yeah.” Quivering voice and the start of sniffling are detected.

(Hoisting myself onto one elbow.) “Aw, buddy, I’m sorry. It was just a dream, though. Why don’t you use the bathroom and then we’ll tuck you back in.”

Off he goes to the bathroom. Now, for the most delicate phase of the operation: how to ensure that it’s my husband who gets out of bed, goes all the way upstairs with the little lad and tucks him in again, leaving me snug and cozy where I am. The trick is to appear to be mostly willing to make the arduous journey, but just slightly too tired and befuddled. Husbandly gallantry will prevail, if I can manage not to overplay my hand.

The first step is a slightly audible sigh. Sometimes a little moan can help.

Gallant Husband: “Is he okay?”

Me: “Yeah. The poor kid had another bad dream.” (Rolling over, slowly, facing husband. Direction is key; keep him engaged while simultaneously showing I’m too tired to get out of bed, myself.)

GH: “Man.”

Me: “Mmmm-hmmm…” (trailing off a bit.)

GH: “Do you want me to go up with him?”

Me: “Mmmmm.” (What a guy.)

Off he goes. If it’s almost 5:00, my husband will just stay up, leaving me to battle the alarm clock. If it’s much earlier than that, I’m usually in dreamland by the time he comes back down the stairs, no doubt smiling a little in my sleep.

Someday, my little dreamer will learn to shake off a nightmare and value sleep over parental comforting. In the meantime, my gallant husband will (hopefully) continue to answer the call of the pitter-pattering feet, and my heart, half-asleep, will go pitter-pat, too.