If you wake at two-in-the-morning, crying, that’s fine. If, because it’s two-in-the-morning, it takes me a while to dredge myself from beneath the covers, and you start wailing to get my attention, well. That’s okay, too. Do whatcha gotta do.
When you tell me that you need to use the bathroom, I’ll be ever so proud. My frustration will vanish, I’ll hog-tie Mr. Hyde. I will
happily lovingly patiently efficiently walk you to the bathroom, and back again.
If, however, crisis averted and Daddy bleary-eyed, you insist – with increasing volume and agitation – that you’d like to play with your flashlight, rather than go back to sleep, count yourself fortunate that YaYa and Auntie Julia are visiting, and sleeping soundly in the adjoining room.
Because, otherwise, I would fold your flashlight into a party hat, and make you wear it.
[No, I don’t know exactly what that means. But it’s the first image that came to mind forty-five minutes later, when I still hadn’t fallen back to sleep.]