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"Mama!" My three-year-old screams. I roll over and look at the clock. It's 2:45 a.m. Even over my awesome Brookstone noise machine which is set to "white noise" I can hear her bellowing.
I walk in and see her sitting up in an awkward position. It's no mystery; she's wet again. Its a battle we've been fighting since she decided she was ready to forgo pull-ups at night- casting off her last vestige of babyhood.
"Mommy, it keeps happening," she says with tears in her voice.
I scoop her up, change her, strip the bed and take her to the bathroom where she somehow has the ability to pee again even though her bed looks like its been through a heavy rain storm.
"Mommy, I can't flush," she says in a whispery voice.
"Why?" I ask through a Benadril-induced-haze.
"Because Mommy," she says in an even quieter whisper, "I don't want to wake anyone up."
I guess I don't qualify as "anyone!"
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