It's 3:00 a.m.
Dark, quiet, everyone is sleeping.
All of a sudden we're jolted awake by intense screaming.
Silas is hysterical.
Begging for Dada to come help him.
This scene happens a few times a week.
He describes the horrible content of his dreams, we try to comfort him.
They all center around the same theme. The same perpetrator.
Through sobs and heaving shoulders he tells us what she does to him.
Baby Mashon (sob sob) knocked over my (sob sob) ice cream!
Why's (sobs) Baby Mashon (sobs) messing with my nat map (aka nap mat)?
Dada, she took my cars (hysterics)!
Tell Baby Mashon (sob sob) give me my blankie pweeeeze!
It's really not funny at the moment. I get all pumped full of adrenaline and then I look at the clock and realize I only have 47 minutes before the sweet little bird outside our window will wake up and I will be forced to spend the remaining early morning hours fantasizing about the different ways I could end its life. (Some mornings I'm so desperate for sleep and filled with hatred for the bird that I convince Brian to run out in his underwear to try and shoot it with the bb gun. So far the score is Tweetie 8, Brian 0.)
Despite the bad dreams and evil bird our bodies somehow always make it on a few hours of sleep. And as I listen to Silas give more details about the dreams the next day I wonder if he might be having a rough time with this baby that's barging into his world.
But I can't help having a good laugh while he's not looking.