A Mother’s Instincts

Last night The Bean, as she does about once a week, got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. Sure, most people do that at least occasionally. But as she does about once a month, in this case she got up to, uh…how to put this delicately…hmm…well, poop. Given that she’s my third child, I feel I can say with some confidence that while that’s not a unknown event, it’s also not quite so usual.

Having finished her bidniz, she calls out for someone to come wipe her. And given that it was the middle of night—around one-thirty in the morning, I think—she has to call again. And again. And again.

Finally her plaintive yet polite pleas for help falls upon ears which haven’t been ringing for two months. After about the fifth time, her voice finally penetrates the always deep and bizarre dreamworld of Top Management. With the kind of lightning-quick reflexes for which mothers of all stripes are known, the second—no, the very split-second, the millisecond, the amount of time it takes for light to travel Planck's length—Top Management realizes that one of her children needs help, she makes her move instantly, and I mean instantaneously: she rolls over, touches my shoulder and says, "Honey…The Bean’s calling."

Startled out of a dead slumber—a relative rarity for me, who’s usually a pretty light sleeper—I jump out of bed and am already running down the hall before I really have any idea of what’s going on or even what I’m doing.

I backtrack to the bathroom—since The Bean’s bed is empty and I dimly recall the bathroom door now being open, something it wasn’t when I, the last one up, went to bed—and sure enough, there she is. So I help her out and by the way her legs stick to the seat as I lift her off, it’s obvious she’s been there awhile.

I wash my hands, take her back to The Blue Room (where all three girls sleep), tuck her in, and stumble back to bed. Top Management asks what the problem was. I fill her in briefly, but she’s already asleep again before I’m done with my two-sentence explanation.

Not so much me, though: I’m exhausted but discombobulated and a bit wired from my initial sprint down the hall. I don’t sleep well the rest of the night, which figures, since The Boy picks today to sleep later than he has in weeks. Oh, he knew what he was doing. He just lives to push my buttons. People think he’s a cutie, but underneath that bubbly fifteen-month-old exterior with its disarming grin and adorable chortle, that child is all complicated schemes and pure spite. Trust me. He’s got everyone else fooled, but not me, pal. Not me.

But the thing is, it wasn’t until I came downstairs this morning and saw Top Management that it occurred to me to ask: why did you wake me up instead of just going yourself?

She looked at me for a second, her mouth dropped open as though she was about to explain, then she simply burst out laughing. "I have no answer to that," she finally said. Apparently it just seemed like a good idea at the time.

Which pretty much sums up our lives.

Comments

[Hooly]

You know, it's a good thing I'm monitoring this blog. Looks like little Miss Management almost let it spill ::::glare:::: Of course she has an answer, but to tell you would be to break the sacred mom code.

Now if you'd please look right here and wait for a flash of light.....

[Scott]

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whuh? Whuh happen? The last thing I remember is some kinda bright light up in the sky...musta been a weather balloon or swamp gas or somethin'...