Well, Isn't That a Kick in the Head

We've got to teach our son some bed sharing manners. Although we do have many nights when he stays in his own bed all night long, if he has a bad dream, it's a hop, skip, and a jump to the big bed where he can sleep in the middle.

And we really don't mind. How could you possibly mind when dawn rolls around and he sighs "I want Mommy" and tucks his head under my neck, puts his arm over my ribs and gives me a little kiss.

That is awfully cute, no?

It's the bad dreams ("No, Wyatt! No!!" was last night's talking in his sleep) and the general rusting that is irritating. He wiggles, he twirls, and he kicks. Usually right in the ol' kidney.

I don't like waking up to being kicked in my kidney. It is not something I enjoy. In fact, I think the kidney kicking ended up in some dream of mine while I was in a HUMONGOUS condo in Manhatten (like several thousand square feet) that needed just a little work but was a bargain pricewise. I figured out why it was so cheap when I had to fight off the vampires who were going after Conor and me. (I've had a fantasy lately of being a Vampire Slayer. Think about it: don't you think Buffy and Willow could have helped out in the fight against Voldemort and the Death Eaters?)

Anyhoo, a vampire was kicking me in the back at some point when in reality is was only my favorite cling-on Conor.

We've taken to mumbling in our sleep "Stop kicking! Stop twirling! Don't hit me in the head!"

Eventually he won't sleep with us nor kiss us when we make him "pay the troll" when he leaves the dinner table. It will all end and then we'll be left with just memories of his toddler snuggles at dawn in the big bed. And damaged kidneys.