restless night

In the middle of the night I was up again, shrunken by the damp cold of our old house, the promise of a soaking rain finally drumming down on the rooftop. From 12:30 until just past 2:30 a.m. Calvin fidgeted, restlessly slamming his head into the mattress, standing, sitting, kneeling, patting the padded rail for me to give him some water and calling “uh-uh” (mama). There was no getting him to settle. After lying him back down half a dozen times or so, and giving him a bit of water, I hoisted him out of the crib. I changed his diaper and lubed the tips of two waxy white bullets—acetaminophen suppositories—thinking that, because of his congestion and/or the antiepileptic drugs, he might have a headache.

I spent those two hours huffing and cussing and stomping around in weary anger and frustration. During these kinds of nights patience runs low, my testiness heightened in the dark hours. But somehow I still manage to snuggle and coo with my sweet little boy because I know that none of this is his fault, I just wish I could take it all away and make it better.

Crawling back into our warm bed for the umpteenth time, tensely expecting more of the same agitation though hopeful Calvin would settle and drift off to sleep, a familiar ominous feeling crept over me that a seizure would follow in the wee hours of the morning.

But just before six we woke to Calvin's sleepy little chatter and the creak of his mattress as he rose to his knees and lovingly, wantingly chirped “uh-uh.”

photo by Michael Kolster