Things seem so different at 2:15 a.m. ...

There's nothing worse than having your child wet his bed in the middle of the night ... in a bunk bed. OK, maybe there is ... but at 2:15 a.m. you don't think about all the other worse things; all you know is that your child has walked into your room, said "Mommy!" in that frantic, loud half-whisper, and despite the ear plugs and the sleep you were enjoying, you just know that voice behind the "Mommy!" isn't going to go away. "I peed in my bed!"

Now, Aidan is not a bed-wetter, but like any young boy he has his moments, few and far between, so I do know we're fortune in this regard. But I'm not thinking about this at 2:15 a.m. I do not wake up well. I am not very caring, or calming, or understanding at 2:15 a.m. I say things like, "Why didn't you pee in the toilet?" actually thinking I might get a response to that ridiculous question. I do rein myself in enough, however, and not make him feel guilty about it, letting him know it's OK and we'll clean it up. In fact, I try to stay as much in the state of mostly-asleep as I can ... but when you're dealing with a bunk bed, you can't stay in that state for very long. For starters, my kids share a bedroom, and Grace's crib is nestled cave-like under the top bunk. I don't want any noise made, for fear of waking up Grace, but that's a challenge. Aidan's still talking in that loud half-whisper, Don's trying to clean him up and for some reason can't find what the needs so he's asking me questions that I don't want to answer in his own (very) loud half-whisper. In the meantime, I'm trying to stay somewhat asleep yet I have to wrestle with the sheet and a mattress that is above my head; I have to climb on the toy box to tuck in the bottom two corners, climb on a chair to tuck in one of the top corners, and then finally climb into the bed to tuck in that last tricky back corner by the wall. I am fully awake by from all of this climbing.

Then comes the damage control, the assessment of what is wet and what has remained dry. Axl: check. Axlina: check. Kitty: check. Blue Blanket ... oh, no. Blue Blanket, the most sacred of all childhood blankets, the worn and threadbare waffle-weave light blue baby blanket that puts Linus to shame, the blanket Aidan cannot sleep without ... is soaking wet. Neither of us is relishing the task of informing Aidan of this soggy fact, and when I do (yes, it falls to me) I am faced with tears that won't stop, but I say there is no way I am letting him sleep with a pee-soaked, nasty blanket. I promise to wash her (yes, it's a her) in the morning and she'll feel so much better when she's clean. That helps somewhat. The tears resumed, however, when we discover that his big, warm, fleecy Scooby Doo blanket that covers his chilly little body is also wet ... but I don't discover this nugget until I put it back on the bed. I had asked Don to check it out, make sure it's dry, and he said it was. Yet when I put it on the bed, not only was it not dry by a long shot but it soaked the newly-wrestled sheet I just put in place ...

An hour later I am still awake, after a few more trips back to Aidan's room, who couldn't stop crying because of the fact that he had no covers. I had offered him two other choices, quickly losing the last shreds of my understanding and patience and resorting to my own hissing loud half-whisper, but of course those blankets are not the same, now are they? There's nothing worse than arguing with a half-awake five-year-old at 3:00 a.m. about a blanket. OK, maybe there is ... but at that hour it sure doesn't feel like it. I'm not sure when I finally fell asleep. And to think I have another child yet to potty train ... but at least she'll be on the bottom bunk.