The 2AM Call

Dear Diary, I was awakened at 2AM by the sound of yelling and crying from the other end of the house. I rolled out of bed, fairly certain I would have failed a field sobriety test in that state. My husband is frequently on call, and he always says that being awakened after only two hours of sleep is the worst time.

“There is absolutely nothing anyone needs at two in the morning,” I grumbled through the bedroom, half blind without my glasses. This was a lie, but I lie to myself frequently on such occasions. Big dog was curled in his bed with the red membranes showing in his eyes, one ear cocked up like it was filtering out all family noises, searching for the sound of an intruder. I stumbled across various toy cars that were set like booby-traps across the living room floor. The offenses the boy had committed were mounting.

I fumbled down the dark hallway, the sound of angry children getting louder. I got within a few feet of their doorway when the stench of urine assaulted me nose, my lungs, my brain. “What is wrong?” I asked irritably anyway, like those know-nothing characters you find in juvenile literature.

“There’s pee—all over the bed,” the semi-cognizant boy wailed. The little tot was sitting next to her brother on the full-sized bed they share in their room, looking innocent. We had made it a whole four days of no diapers at night, and I had just begun to feel a bit of confidence—and then the stench.

Really, it’s my fault. I forgot to remind her to pee before bed, and drifted off peacefully myself, planning to be awakened by happy, dry children that smelled normal. Silly me. The tot seemed to have unloaded significantly more urine than a two year old can hold in her bladder. A urine flood had taken place.

It was just the day before that I had bought a mattress cover. Apparently, gone are the days of my childhood mattress covers—a simple fitted-sheet style piece of plastic. The store didn’t have any of those, and I was forced to buy a mattress diaper, held together by zippers. Getting a diaper on a mattress is significantly more challenging than getting one on a child, despite what I thought when I first became a mom. Surrounded by obstructing toys and having zero upper body strength, it’s ridiculous. I was imagining trying to maneuver a sedated alligator. “Just roll over…” Strained voice, “There! Got you!” Short scream, as the unconscious alligator pins me beneath it.

Random picture of dolls, which are as lively as the mattress but significantly easier to move.

“Someone peed,” the boy reiterated, “and it certainly wasn’t me.” He certainly sounded older than five at this moment. In my groggy state I was hearing his voice in a British accent, like I had just entered the bedroom of a boarding school somewhere. Young David Copperfield was assuring me that he would never pee the bed.

Being two, peeing the bed is not a shameful thing. It’s more of a where-did-that-come-from kind of thing. I instructed the kids to change, tossing urine soiled clothes outside the room on the tile floor to stink up the rest of the house. I grabbed the first article of clothing that was on top in their drawers. The tot was put into a dress shirt and underwear and was a bit sad about having to take off her new nightgown; the boy was put in something I didn’t even recognize.

A pallet was made on the floor. Urine problems are best dealt with in the morning.

First thing this morning I was awakened by the pungent smell of urine flooding into my consciousness like a gust of wind had flown it straight up my nostrils. I opened my eyes to see the tot, an enormous happy smile on her face, holding her soiled nightgown under my nose like smelling salts.

“Look! I found my new nightgown!”

It is definitely not new anymore.