On Wool Sweaters

When I lay down in my bed at night, I sigh and relax and think of the vastness of hours that spread before me in anticipation of a restful slumber. As I drift off to sleep, forgetting the stresses of the day, I feel my body and my mind relax... letting go... I doze off, peacefully. Then JOLT awake to the sound of a crying baby who decided to start fussing 10 minutes after I fell asleep... "Riley - you go," I say, as my body, now made of cement, will not allow me to get out of bed. Dutifully, he heads off to Baby J's room and spends 20 minutes patting his back. Baby J drifts off to sleep and Riley, ever so quietly tip-toes back into the bedroom, collapses onto the bed and sighs, closing his eyes, relaxing. Somewhere, in the dark beyond, a baby again cries. Can't... get... up... A discussion ensues about how the child cannot be hungry, no dirty diaper, not cold, not wet, not in pain, just not tired. And so, the baby fussed, off and on until almost midnight. I don't remember drifting off to sleep, but was woken up with a JOLT to the sound of a little girl calling her mama and the distinct sound of the frustrated, disappointed, uncomfortableness that follows an episode of bed-wetting. The time? 2:15 am. I feel my night shrinking. Shrinking away like a wool sweater that has been accidentally thrown in the dryer.