Urine nation

The other night I let Shawn Joaquin sleep with me after his fourth time screaming down the hall, reasoning that if he were next to me in bed it would be easier to calm him or perhaps allay whatever anxiety sends him banshee-like down the hall demanding my presence. It was 5am, and I had been up every hour on the hour, and damnit, it was time to sleep.

Madelena interrupted this plan at 5:15; Shawn Joaquin found her annoying and thus had to scream until she went back to bed at 5:30. Finally, at 5:45, after he had arranged my arms and body JUST SO to ensure his maximum comfort, he fell into a deep, snoring sleep. At 6:15, I awoke to a warm, wet sensation on my leg — for the first time in his life, Shawn Joaquin had wet the bed. And not just any bed. MY BED.

So I did what any good mother would do. I got up, wrapped his urine-soaked body in a towel, assumed the required position and went back to sleep.

Holy crap. How the mighty — and once hygienically-correct — have fallen.