The pass is perfect, a tight spiral into the cool night’s air. The ball trails into the receiver’s hands, tucked into the corner of the end zone as the clock hits triple zeros. My hands raise to the sky as 80,000 screams echo for the greatest Super Bowl in history. A legend and a champion, I reach for the trophy and…
DAAAAAAADDDDDDYYYYYY!
I’m jolted awake. My dreams die. I am a mere mortal again, barely functional as I contemplate my next move. Pretend to stay asleep until my wife takes this shift? Unlikely, as her log sawing is loud enough to scare Paul Bunyan. Turn over and hope the kid falls back asleep. Five minutes feels like an hour and I have no choice.
I maneuver out of bed, stumble over the dog, bump into the door frame and navigate this invisible labyrinth I normally call my house. First, I try to identify which child is upset. Their cries at night have always been similar, even from the first night they came home from the hospital. Those first few months were rough. Sleep was a valuable currency, one you couldn’t afford as this foreign object wailed, screamed and shrieked for the better part of 24 hours a day. And even if you could drift off for a moment, you were a dormant ninja just ready to pounce with a warm bottle or binkie.
As the kids get older, these night terrors are less frequent, almost making them more painful. Tonight is a familiar story: a nightmare my daughter can’t describe or remember, but one that seemed to scare the living shit out of her, akin to a Children of the Corn private screening. “Daddy, can you lay with me?,” she says as I mumble something inaudible, doing just enough to not wake up myself. I oblige, overflowing out of her bed like some kind of estranged giant.
As I maneuver the dolls, books, toys and general kid crap from my spine and neck, I think I’m ready to make my move back to home base. Like a spirit arising from the earth, I try to levitate out of her bed, not moving a muscle or making a sound. Of course, any other night I could lead a marching band out of her room and she wouldn’t budge, but now just the sound of my breath startles her awake. “Where are you going?!”
I can see where this is heading. Do I hold strong, enforcing the sleep boundaries that protect my psyche, marriage and general restorative health? Or do I break, invite her back into our bed and surrender to this 38-pound hurricane? Consider the white towel waved. My daughter jumps with joy and sets a world-record 40-time to our bedroom, immediately staking her spot with the comforter, my pillow and nearly the entire half of the mattress that I am normally allotted. I take a defeated sigh, grab a horrendous throw pillow and position myself on the very precipice of the bed, fearing a lofty fall to the floor below with each passing minute.
The grin on her face suggests her bad dreams have all but disappeared, whereas my own nightmares of clock-watching and sleeplessness are in full effect. I have lost the battle and sulk back to my daughter’s room. The dolls and teddy bears laugh at me as I send them flying to the floor. My feet dangle off the end of the bed as I softly cry into a Disney princess pillowcase. Sleeping beauty, I am not.
The next morning is blur and back pain, as I search for coffee like water in the Sahara. “Where is my breakfast?!,” my daughter screams, completely oblivious to my patriarchal sacrifice from just hours before. At least I always have Eggo waffles to lean on.
The things we do for our kids.