One night a couple of weeks ago, my husband and I heard shouts from my 3-year-old’s bedroom.
I need zero excuses to grab my kids and put them into the bed with us. I love snuggling with them, and they won’t want to do that forever.
My husband, on the other hand, is a much lighter sleeper than I am, and the moment a kid gets into the bed with us is the moment he knows his sleepless night will start.
“I’m going to go get him,” I said, already halfway out of the bed.
“Ugh,” my husband replied, rolling over. “Let’s wait to see if it happens again. He’s probably already back to sleep.”
As if on cue, we heard another shout from my son’s bedroom. “I’m going to get him,” I said again. “Poor little guy. He’s having a nightmare.”
I had just crossed over the threshold from our bedroom and into the hall when I heard my husband. “I have nightmares all the time,” he muttered. “In fact, most days I feel like I’m living one.”
I gasped and turned back toward him. We sort of caught each other’s eyes in the dark, and that’s when we both dissolved into fits of giggles.
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