He need a wake up.

Today we had a great morning! The afternoon, not so much. Button went down for his regular nap like the little napping pro that he is. Then it was Dimples' turn. He fell asleep on top of me, which I thought would be fine at the time. I mean, I can just move him later, right? You know where this is headed. As soon as I laid him down, his little eyes popped open. Have you ever seen a horror movie? The kind where you think the monster is dead at the end, only to have the frame pan into its face until all you can see is the monsters closed left eye when it suddenly bursts open in red fury and the background music is suddenly booming in your ears and you know the sequel is coming. That's what it's like to watch your baby wake up. Watching them sleep is great. "Oh, so sweet! What a little angel!" Then they wake up and, no matter how hard you try to suppress or deny it, your heart pounds a little in your throat and you feel a sudden, though admittedly fleeting, total panic. Anyway, so then he wouldn't go back to sleep. For two hours. I fought, I cried, I sang, I rocked, I bounced, I nursed, I replaced his pacifier ninety seven thousand times. Nothing. Then Button woke up because of all the crying and whining and pleading, and it was just a mess.

Finally, FINALLY I get dimples to sleep. A good sleep. A strong sleep. A sleep full of promise and good fruit. Until he starts screaming. I fly into the bedroom, beside myself and full of angst. I burst through the door, only to see my three year old, standing on the bottom crib rail with his fingers mischievously close to Dimples' face. Upon my frenzied arrival he immediately announces, "He need a wake up." Then leaves while the baby, and their mother, cry.

Sir Runsalot came home in the midst of all this hassle and tears, and apparently I gave him a look. A look that told him my entire tale of woe in a mere instant. His response? He immediately disappeared into the recesses of the house. I felt betrayed. Or maybe I would have, except that I was so preoccupied with trying to get the implacable baby to sleep I didn't have time. Five minutes later, I smell Eucalyptus. What the what? Then I hear music. Then Sir Runsalot comes marching into the battlezone to announce that my Spa is waiting and that I have thirty minutes to soak in our now overly full, wonderfully hot bathtub.

Oh, my husband, you know just how to make me pleasant again.