Of-course it was the night I chose to 'stay up late' (oooh, midnight it was!) that my little one decided to wake up every.single.hour. upon the hour>
First my husband got up.
Then I did.
Then my husband.
Then my husband probably again. (oh he's good)
And maybe he got up again...then I, feeling horrible, knowing the poor man had to work in the morning, trudged in after him too.
Finley had wet through his diaper and now John was changing him.
I changed the sheets, the blankets. The everything thing else.
As we worked together. In unison. Quietly. Though each of us emitting telltale signs of having had enough of our youngest's shenanigans, I thought to myself, "Yes, we are a team. A pretty good one. Oh yes. Yes we are!" I was so proud of us at that very minute.
And I couldn't wait to get back into my warm bed.
As I finished up and turned to chide my little one, he simultaneously announced, "It's because he wouldn't eat any dinner! He's probably starving! Can you please bring him downstairs and get him something to eat."
Oh no, no, no.
But he did have to work in the morning. And he was right...not that we've ever been in the habit of feeding our children in the middle of the night...he wasn't sick, no fever.
I could tell he was just trying to piss us off. Basically.
So I took my little one from my husband.
I may or may not have huffed.
"Honey, I have to work in the morning!"
"Fine! I get it! Fine!"
Down, down, down the stairs I stomped.
But not without one final..."FINE!" as he stood at the top of the stairs, exhausted and entirely exasperated.
And the proud moment...just went *poof.*