4 in the morning

4 in the morning is one of my favorite songs by Gwen Stefani, but it is absolutely not my favorite time of the night. Last night, around 3:30am, I hear the door quietly open with my super-sense momma ears and look up in time to see a dark flash of a boy silently burst into the room and slide between the wall and the lazy boy chair in our room. For about 15 minutes, I saw a dark little head pop up and down, I saw legs and dark shadows and who knows what else. Cameron finally emerged after that 15 minutes and was suddenly standing right by my head smiling. I got up out of bed and he took off running back into his room. I tucked him in three more times that night and finally plugged in a night light I found downstairs, which seemed to appease him. Of course, like that fabulous 90's hit by Alanis Morisette that we thought was just so true and sang along to at the top of our lungs, an ironic thing continues to happen on nights like that....instead of being able to sink back into the mattress and snuggle up to my pillow, the baby wakes up. No matter what night it is or what the circumstance is or how much he tiptoes and whispers, Cameron getting out of his bed later prompts Brenden to wake up the second I get snuggled back into bed. It's not that Cam is loud and wakes him up, it's just the irony of it all. The universe allows me to fall into a deep sleep for about 45 seconds and then decides that is just enough time to be sure that it will be ironic enough and sends Brenden into progressive convulsions. I am never allowed to get another quick hour of sleep in before being awakened again, it just wouldn't be right. Or just 30 minutes! Just give me 30 more minutes!! So, out of the silence, I hear that baby nose breath that sends cringes and electricity through my body and jolts me into a state of zombie-like awareness that he is going to start crying any second. Besides the swears in my head, I angrily throw back the covers, hoping to wake up my warm, slumbering husband and take the baby in the bathroom to get his bottle ready. I finally get back to sleep after almost two hours of middle-of-the-night adventures. I won't even go into the irony of the 7am bottle and how right when I get the baby fed and back to sleep and then back to sleep myself, milliseconds later, Cameron is by my head smiling and ready for the day. Isn't it ironic? Don't you think?