Of Nightmares and Zombies

Michael had had a pretty bad day yesterday. Not sure who did it, but someone must have put an extra dose of Random in his frosted flakes that morning, because all day he demonstrated just how mischievous he could be.

It was with much glee that bedtime finally rolled around last night, and off he went. I told him I wasn’t happy with him, and that he needed to be much better if he was going to get a visit from Santa. I told him we’d be getting our pictures taken with Santa tomorrow, and that he’d know whether Michael was good or not.

His mom and I were fairly exhausted from the week prior as it was, so we headed to bed early hoping to catch up on some sleep.

So it shouldn’t have surprised me much to hear Michael crying at 1:05 in the morning. I shuffled into his room and asked:

“What?”

“(unintelligible verbiage)”

“You had a bad dream?”

“(more unintelligible verbiage)”

“About what?” I asked.

“There was Santa Claus and it was okay and he was nice and the moon was there and it had a scary face and it was stuck on me… (dissolve into hitched crying again)”

“Santa Claus?”

“No, not Santa Claus,” he said.

“The moon?”

“No, it wasn’t the moon. It was a balloon and it had ears, and it got stuck on me.”

“Well, it’s over now, so let’s settle down and go back to sleep,” I said, stroking his forehead and hoping he’d settle back down.

All seemed well as I headed back to bed.

“At least you didn’t yell,” my wife observed. “That’s your usual M.O.”

“Well, anyone can change,” I said, hoping maybe I was actually making inroads in that department.

Then we heard the crying again.

Back into Michael’s room I went.

“Now what?”

“I’m still sad!” he said, crying.

“Michael, there’s nothing to be sad about.” I sat with him and explained what his nightmare was and that everything was okay, that it was all in his mind. We talked for a while, I told him what weird thing I had dreamed about before my sleep was so rudely interrupted, and he seemed mollified by my words. My reasoning was that if I could take his mind off of his own imagination, maybe he’d get a new train of thought going, on more pleasant tracks.

“So, you’ll go back to sleep?”

“Yes,” he said, confidently.

“No more crying?”

“No,” he said, pulling the covers up over his shoulder.

“Okay. Night-night,” I said, and headed back to bed.

Wait five minutes, cue the crying.

Back in I go.

“Michael, you promised!”

“I’m so sad!”

“Okay, off to mommy & daddy’s room, then,” I said, and shooed him out of his bed.

As was to be expected, Michael did not settle down nor sleep in our room, even by the loosest standards. He was as lively and alert as ever.

“I can take him downstairs,” my wife suggested. I just heaved a sigh in acceptance. Maybe I can get some sleep, then relieve her in a while so she can sleep.

I couldn’t sleep. So after twenty minutes or so, I headed downstairs myself.

By this time, it was closing in on 2:30 AM.

His mom had already gotten Sprout tuned in, Michael’s favorite channel when he’s not feeling his best.

He asked for eggs to eat, his mom made him eggs. He asked for sausage… no sausage.

“I can go get some,” I said. “We need milk anyway.” This was true; the gallon and a half we had on Friday had already been absorbed by his sisters, who probably would be happiest if we had a couple of dairy cows in the backyard and a Pasteurization system in the garage.

So at ten to 3 AM, I was off to the store. I was surprised to see so many cars out at that hour. I was also surprised to find that our 24 hour grocery store has a fifteen minute window every night in which clerical work must occur and no register can be open. So I stood in front of the pharmacy end cap, right next to the Ricolas and cotton balls, glaring (cheerily) at the clerk, who seemed to believe that the clock on the wall would reprimand her severely for daring to process my groceries before due time.

Finally made it home with the groceries. I started in cooking sausage right away because I could see that Michael’s mommy was fading fast.

Michael, however, was not.

After he’d finished his sausage and juice, he wanted to play. I tried to explain to him that this was not play time.

I eventually told my wife that she could head up to bed. “But I’d feel guilty,” she said. I tried to show her the practicality of it: if both of us are bleary-eyed the next day, we won’t be much good. But if she’s gotten some sleep under her belt maybe I could catch a nap later. Maybe.

Finally, at 5:00, Michael wrapped himself up tightly in his blankets, the sure sign that he’s feeling drowsy and ready for bed.

Seizing the opportunity, I carried him up to bed and tucked him in. He snuggled into his blankies and drifted off to sleep.

I finally headed to bed myself, and thought it took me a good forty-five minutes to fall asleep, I finally did.

And then Michael came barging into our room at 8 AM, chipper as a caffeine-soaked Jack Russell Terrier, ready to go and rarin’ for action.

I don’t know what lesson there is to be learned here, other than the fact that Michael is some sort of mutant who doesn’t actually need sleep.

So I ask: can someone be his buddy for the day so his mom and I can get a good nap?