I Was Mugged!

By my own son.

In the wee hours of the morning.

At least, that's how it felt.

Sawyer has this annoyingadorable habit of coming into bed with us in the middle of the night. He climbs over David, gets under the covers, and falls asleep.

Usually I am so dead to the world that I don't even notice until I hear him tell David that he's ready to go back to Racecar Bed.

Once in awhile, he'll stiffen out his legs like a dog and poke me in the back.

He doesn't appear every night, but it's becoming a little more regular. I have talks with him before bed, telling him NO VISITING. And when he wakes up after spending the whole night in his bed, he's pretty proud of himself.

This has not stopped him from helping himself to our slumber.

Last night - it was actually 4:30 in the morning - was Exhibit A as to why I could never do a family bed.

There I was, soundly sleeping, enjoying the last half-hour before my 5 a.m. alarm went off, when all of a sudden there were arms flailing about my face. Legs kicking me.

INTRUDER! A smallish one, but still.

My little boy. When I peered through the dark to his head on my pillow, what did I see but his beatific face, with his dark and impossibly long eyelashes resting against his soft cheek.

So I rolled over. But he wasn't done yet.

He gave me several smacks upside my head, kicks in my side - and he was STILL ASLEEP!

Unlike me. I picked him up - he was completely out - and deposited him in his bed. Then I slept seven more blissful minutes before the alarm went off.

Good f'in' morning.