October has trickled in at last, by which I mean it's rainy. We had been having a beautiful Indian Summer, clear and sunny with a nip in the air and pumpkins gleaming a friendly shade of orange. Last night over the hum of the fan in our bedroom window, I heard the rain begin. Rain drumming on the roof is the best soporific known to man. Well, perhaps to man but not to my 18 month old daughter who woke up crying four times last night, provoking middle of the night bargaining between the Dear Husband and I.
"You get her and I'll put her back," said Dear Husband.
"Ok," say I thinking it a good bargain. After all, that means I can go back to sleep right? No. It means that she kicks and squirms and thrashes. It means she beans me in the eye and knocks the wind out of me and the spouse snores blissfully.
I put her back in bed and 2 hours later she cries again. This time Dear husband gets her and we start again. And Again. The last time he pushed the squirming toddler at me and DH gets ready to leaves for work. The Littlest calms down and snoozes lightly and I get pulled back to my dreams.
Just as I was finding out Who-Dun-it in The Case of the Missing Brownies (yes my dream life tends to have an Encyclopedia Brown shadow to it), I jumped awake to realize the Littlest was no longer snuggled up against me.
I found her communing with the dog in the darkened hallway. I picked her up and popped her back in her own bed and grabbed the last bit of sleep I could.
The Dog is snoozing. Apparently she had a hard night.
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