It's like an air raid siren, starts slowly, and escalates, loud and relentless.
Mom, mom, interspersed between whiny sobs. Go in, he's uncovered. Oh, maybe that's the problem, cover him up, rub his back, head back into bed. Again, over and over.
It's exhausting, worse than when he was a baby. Then, he'd just sleep with us. Now, it's you're a big boy, let's sleep in your own bed. I give in, and I lose.
But what do I lose, exactly? A good night's sleep, that much I know. Finally, he quiets. I fall asleep, and dream of a war, filled with sounds of an air raid.
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