Every Cloud . . .

We made the switch to the big girl bed. One night next to the crib, next night completely on its own. All is well in Gertrudetown.

Smooth sailing? Well sure, if you count two sleepless nights, one casualty and a completely rearranged room where the kid still sleeps backwards on the bed (Head to foot, my friend . . . it’s the only way.)

We prepared everything for the first night and it was great. She was excited about the whole thing. New bed, she’s a big girl, yay and such. When it was time for good night everything changed. Drastically.

“Daddy, don’t leave.”

Well, I am a strong man and I know what needs to be done. I stood up, looked stern and authoritative and said, “Let me go get a pillow and I’ll lie on the floor next to you.”

With my resolve in tact, I laid on the floor while she fidgeted in her bed.

“Daddy,” she asked.

“Yes honey.”

“You’re my best friend.” When she turns sixteen she’ll get a completely restored 1968 cherry red GTO convertible with a V8. No questions asked.

“Thank you honey. You’re my friend too. Let’s settle down and go to sleep.”

And. Eventually. She went to sleep. I tucked her in, kissed her on the forehead and went out to see what goodies Tivo had prepared for me. Eventually I went to bed.

At 2 a.m. I heard a scream. Or, perhaps it was jut a vocalization, a murmur maybe, but she made a noise. Within exactly 1/32 of a second I was out of bed and heading to her room. I reacted so quickly that I think I actually became semi-permeable and passed through the covers.

Fidget, tuck, kiss, back to bed. I skim sleep. At 4 a.m. and plaintive wail. This time she’s awake. I reassure her, I stroke her worried brow, I kiss her. She says, “Daddy, don’t leave.” This time I knew what to do. I had learned my lesson last time. I stood up, looked authoritative and threw a blanket on the floor because the carpet is uncomfortable.

And there I slept for the next two hours. When I woke up her hand was on my cheek, as if to reassure me. Kiss, tuck, back to bed. She had survived the night. Whew.

Then on Sunday we rearranged her room totally and all hell broke loose. Her bump bumps, a white noise generator that emitted the reassuring sounds of a mother’s heartbeat, had a myocardial infarction and passed away. With no white noise for her, there was no sleep. I knew it. She knew it. Even Donald Rumsfeld knew it.

Matilda was spending the night at Grandma’s, so I grabbed her CD player and put it in Gert’s room. I slapped in a CD I made for Matilda years ago, filled with songs and sweet lullabies. Not only did this work, it electrified Gertrude. She was so grateful and happy for the music that she gushed gratitude.

“My songs help me sleep,” she said. “I love my songs.”

And she went to sleep a little easier, even though I went into the next room instead of lying next to her. I say a little easier . . .

Five minutes into her new set up she yells, “DADDY! DADDY!”

I come running in, expecting to see snakes coming out of the walls and Beelzebub himself standing over her ready to suck out her soul. What????

“This is the song you sang for me when I was a TINY BABY,” she shrieked excitedly.

“Huh?”

“It’s the song you sang for me when I was a TINY BABY!” Ah. Yes, it was. “God Only Knows” was playing quietly on her CD player.

“Yes it is sweetie. It’s one of my favorites.” And I began to sing along.

“Shhh,” she said, “No singing. Only listen.” Oops. Sorry.

The song began to wind down, and so did Gertrude. As I began to leave, she looked at me with questioning eyes.

“Daddy,” she asked.

“Yes, sweetie.”

“Why do they sing ‘ba ba ba’?”

“In the bridge? Because dit dit dit would have sounded silly.”

“Yeah,” she said.

What happened next? Well, read here to find out the half truth.