Doodaddy

Two-year olds shockingly resemble bad bosses: they’re random and feisty and always testing your loyalty without cause.

(The metaphor is imperfect, since most bad bosses don’t express disapproval by peeing on the rocking chair. But stick with me here.)

Boo had become a sleeping machine. Just a month ago she was a regular two a.m. terror, but thanks to a well-placed behavior chart she pulled herself together. For a month now she’s been putting herself to sleep and sleeping through the night every single night. I won’t pretend that a constant and delectable string of bribes — *ahem*, “rewards” –didn’t play a role, but that’s another story.

Perfection is a process, not a place, right? Lo, we are seriously backsliding: every few days, Boo seems compelled to remind us that her inner insomniac still reigns.

And so it was two nights ago that I was summoned to her newly-earned big girl bed somewhere between ass-dark and the buttcrack of dawn by an animal cry of indignation. Screams can speak volumes, and this one spoke of a huge volume of poop, and probably a leak.

Quick aside: Darn those nighttime diapers. They need to make some that are about twice the size. I’m envisioning a shoulder-to-knee torso wrap, perhaps with some pipes and hoses and a vacuum system attached for especially wet nights.

So I went to Boo, changed her, cleaned up a bit, and put her apparently sleeping body back down. As I prepared to make my retreat, though, I heard a tiny plea at baby-chick volume:

“Rub my back.”

OK. I can do that. A few minutes of backrub and Boo fell asleep.

Again, I quietly snuck out of the room but this time as I leave the door makes that gentle pucker sound of paint on paint, the protesting kiss of an overwarm jamb.

That’s when the screaming started. (Well, re-started.)

I’ll spare you my many remaining attempts to leave the room. Boo fell asleep again at least a half-dozen times, only to awaken at a footstep or the gentle thwop of the bed rail being clipped in the up position.

I felt betrayed. My brave, independent girl had become a mewling infant again. It went on for over four hours, during which time I was mostly awake excepting those few moments when my head fell against the wall and I dozed off, only to awaken with a jerk twenty minutes and one nasty neck crick later.

Every night for a week leading up to this day shed slept perfectly. The next night, too, she was back to normal. So why this one night turned into — and I don’t use this word lightly — sleeping hell?

Was she overtired? Underpooped? Excited about the convention? Concerned about the waning gibbous moon? It even strikes me that she might have been reminding me what sleepless nights are like so I’m prepared for the Blueberry’s arrival.

Or, like ever other tyrannical boss I’ve ever had, maybe she just decided on that one random night to indiscriminately put me in my place without explanation or warning.