JANNA. DON'T BE SCARED.

One of the many things I admire about Chrissy is her ability to respond to our children's needs in the middle of the night with grace, patience, and coherence of thought. It is certainly not unusual for her to get up to attend to their (ie. Janna's) immediate crisis, and while I know she is tired, she is very soothing and kind, reasoning with the children (Janna) gently and explaining that no ghosts, shadows, or spiders will actually bring harm during the night.

While I have plenty of good intentions as I fall asleep each night, rarely do I wake up when one of the kids is crying at night, much less make a meaningful contribution to our family during these times.

Unfortunately for everyone, for the past two nights, Chrissy has been sleeping in the basement to escape the heat, leaving me as the responsible adult upstairs. I have no idea if anyone woke up crying two nights ago (I certainly didn't wake up!), but last night was a different story. The following recollection is a vague and blurry memory, but I'll give an accurate account to the best of my ability.

At approximately 2am, I experienced the strangest sensation of being slowly tugged to consciousness. For a long time I resisted this feeling with all my might, but the tug was relentless, prodding and pulling at me until I had to admit that I was awake. It was then that I noticed the shrill and ceaseless screaming that I realized had been going on for quite some time. I pondered the unique timber and cadence of this shriek before gradually identifying it as Janna's voice. Then began a long and dramatic mental and physical struggle to remove myself from the bed.

With incredible effort of will, I finally managed to fling my limbs far enough to escape the dastardly allure of nocturnal comfort. I blindly stumbled toward the door, desperately attempting to open my eyes and feeling my way toward Jesse and Janna's room. I bluntly introduced my face to their door, bursting it open with the force and sound of an explosion, which quickly silenced the shrieking as Janna looked towards me with wild fright.

I felt the need to say something fatherly and reassuring to allay her innocent night-time fears, but my mouth was not yet working, and I had only just managed to partially open one eye. Nevertheless, I knew that this was an important moment and I needed to be tactful, so I opened my mouth and half-bellowed,  "JANNA. NO."

Janna responded with a stunned silence.

Pleased with myself for so eloquently handling the situation, I turned and staggered down the hall and into bed, plunging immediately into the sleep from which I had not fully woken up in the first place.

Almost immediately, I again experienced the familiar and heart-rending tug of being wrenched into consciousness, and this time the screaming was even more insistent than before. Again I waged war with my mind, body, and soul to fling myself out of my beautiful, warm bed and into the darkness and danger of the hallway. Perhaps, I reflected abstractly to myself, I needed to be even more nurturing than before, more like Chrissy. As I bumbled loudly into her room, Janna looked up at me with tears in her eyes, and wailed, "Daddy! A spider!" I paused in the doorway and tried to open my eyes. Fighting with all my might against the sleep that was still holding on to me, I searched for the words that would make it better for her and bellowed, "JANNA. DON'T BE SCARED."

I can't remember what happened after that; I have vague memories of feeling satisfied and climbing back into bed. At any rate, Janna didn't wake me up again. In case you're wondering, I do feel appropriately like a horrible person looking back at this, and I don't recommend this particular parenting strategy to anyone. Most of all, as I look back and remember the nearly superhuman effort it took me to be so uniquely useless in the middle of the night, I have a special respect for Chrissy, and mothers everywhere, who actually get up with their kids many nights of the week, often more than once.

It hardly seems possible.

Janna woke up again at 6:45am shrieking in terror because of another evil spider. This time, I was able to respond in a slightly more appropriate way, inviting her down to tell me about it. "It was a dirty, dirty spider," she informed me.

"Janna!" I admonished, "that isn't very nice! How would you feel if someone called you a dirty, dirty kid?" Janna found this question quite funny.
(What a great girl. I think she forgives me.)

Chrissy is the real hero of the story. She definitely gets tired too, but she keeps going with tremendous fortitude and grace, even at five months pregnant and while watching a ridiculously busy household of children.

Impressed,
Until next time...