The witching hour

Some nights, from time to time, Owen wakes at 10:30 or so, crying badly. These are not the subconscious mutterings of, "Hey, where's Sheepy? Where... oh, there it is. Let me mash it against my face. Mmf. Mmf. Ahh..." but rather the waking cries of, "AAHHHHHHHH! Pain! Fear! Pain!" Last night, I heard a sound that preceded the crying. I didn't recognize it at all; it sounded like a combination of choking and running water. Only when Owen started crying did I realize that it had been him, at which point that strange, earlier sound became one of the worst things I'd ever heard.

The good news is that these bad dreams - at least that's what we think they are - are consolable. The first time, we fed him. The next time, he was falling back to sleep with Kerry by the time I got the bottle warmed. Last night, I knew to immediately scoop him up, and within a couple of minutes, he was heading back to the non-scary counties of the Dreaming.

And here's where I start to feel a little guilty, when I get happy from my son's trauma. Because there is nothing that feels as good as that little person falling asleep in my arms. His head in the fold of my elbow, his arms gradually relaxing to lie against his side or dangle past my forearm - it's truly one of the best feelings I've ever known. I'm sorry that he was terrified from his sleep, but that moment makes it all better - at least for me.