I knew we should have turned the channel from the damn killer bee special.  There we were, innocently playing along, looking at photos from when the little angel was a baby.

"Look!" I'd say.  "Who's that?"

Little angel:  "Mommy!  Daddy!"

Me:  "And who is the other person?"

LA:  "Baby!"

Me:  "That's you!  You are the baby!"

The little angel looked at me as though I'd just told her cheese didn't grow out of the ground wrapped individually in plastic.  How could she possibly be the baby? 

LA:  "NO!  Baby!  BAAABBEEEEE!"

Me:  "Well, fine, but it IS you."

I looked up about this point to notice that my beloved had turned on a science-channel special about killer bees attacking the southern U.S.  We both momentarily got sucked in, until I noticed the little angel looking up and my Mama Meter FINALLY kicked in.  I dove for the remote.

Here it comes. 

I have no idea if she caught the footage of the bees swarming and killing a small dog or not (yes, this is how stupid we are - we didn't even notice what we were watching, I swear!), but she woke up at 1 in the morning, then again at 3.  From 3-4 a.m. she was inconsolable.  Even when my beloved in desperation laid down on the floor and stuck his hand through the crib bars to comfort her, it was not enough.  She was howling, her crocodile tears pouring down her face.

I finally came in (I had done 1 a.m. duty), pulled out my earplugs and patted her head. She was standing in the crib, completely ignoring my beloved and screaming.  I have been reading a lot about sleep disturbances lately - as any reader of this blog knows, my sleep is disturbed on average of two times a night five nights out of any given week - and I finally became convinced she had had a nightmare.  Therefore, I took pity.  I pulled her out of her crib and took her downstairs.  She practically scaled my body as I picked her up, heading straight for the protection of my neck.  She lodged her red head in between my chin and my sternum and rubbed her snotty nose into my skin, pat, pat, patting my back all the while.  "Mommy, mommy," she moaned.

Well, now, I felt pretty bad for her.  She was obviously terrified.  And I know, I know, I'm supposed to make her stay in her crib.  But guess what?  We've been attempting to Ferber her since she was five months old, and when I look back, she hasn't slept through the night more than two times straight since AUGUST, despite our Ferberian efforts.  So?  Screw it.  The couch it was.  Once we climbed under the blanket and Sybil joined us, she passed out, nose in my neck, like a log.  And I admit, sometimes it's nice to be so needed.