The boy woke up crying twenty minutes into his nap. His sister was still sleeping and I was lying in my own bed inviting sleep to overtake me. With a disgruntled sigh I listened to him cry for a moment to see if he would resettle himself. No such luck.
I dragged myself out from underneath the warm covers (the girl's covers, not my own since the only way she would go lie in her bed was with my blankets) and made a stop to the bathroom for some drugs before opening the door to the boy's room. After administering some Tylenol through the dropper I rubbed his back and the boy fell back to sleep. I climbed back under my covers and buried my head in my pillow. Bliss.
He cried again. I begrudgingly climbed out of bed and headed to his room. Tired from being up with him the night before and desperate for a nap, I picked him up and took him back to bed with me. Lying him on his stomach and rubbing his back, he quickly fell back asleep. Soon I was asleep too.
I woke up with a start when I heard him rustling next to me. Full of smiles and ready to blow raspberries on any exposed skin he can find (which really is quite cute, except when he stops nursing to blow raspberries on my breast. That always feels a bit mocking) he was ready to get up and get going. Me, not so much. I was obviously taking too long to wake up because he crawled over to the wall and knocked on it with his knuckles.
That is what I do every morning after a night with the boy in bed with me. When the husband hears it he wakes up from the mattress he has been sleeping on in the boy's room and comes and takes the boy. Even if it is 4 am. Even if it is 3 am. (Stupid time change.)
So knock knock goes the boy. But the husband wasn't on the other side of the wall, no matter how much the boy or I wished he was. I sure am glad that he is most mornings.