I am convinced the boys are plotting against us. Worst yet, they are using what I post on this blog as fuel for their clever cruelty. "Sleepyhead ehe? Comparing me to a raver? We'll show them! Muuhahaha!"
In the middle of the night Ozzi is screaming like he's on fire. K8 and I betray our better judgment to bring him into our bed. Like roadies digging for all the green M&M's to fill a bowl in Mick Jagger's dressing room, we know we're just condoning the behavior, but, at 1 in the morning, we're not willing to endure the wrath incurred. We must have dropped a few red ones into the bowl. From 1 to 4 am Ozzi was screaming, laughing, crying, babbling, flailing, and playing like a belligerent drunk. Not drunk on alcohol, drunk on power. Power over his weak enabler parents. He bites his beautiful mother. He stage dives onto my head and gives me a face full of pee engorged diaper. "This isn't a fucking Daft Punk concert you cute crazy little shit, it's Mama and Papa's bed. It's not party time, it's sleeping time. Pleeeeaaaaaaase go to sleep. Please! AAAAAHHHHH!"
Whimpers from the other room warn us of the approach of the whining reinforcements that Ozzi has called in. Q's arrival to the battle in our bed, however, does not work out to Ozzi's favor. Emboldened by overcrowding and sleep deprivation, I gather Ozzi up and place him back in his crib. I return to our bed.... and Q. Q begins to lightly moan and stroke my hair like a teenager on ecstasy and Ozzi catches on fire again. The battle rages back and forth until eventually Q, realizing a wild and ruckus neighbor is more tolerable than a wild and ruckus bedfellow, returns to his own bed. K8 manages, with great effort, to cajole Ozzi to sleep just in time to miss the morning sun rise into our window.