Last night, Lucia woke up screaming bloody murder at 11:45pm. She hasn’t woken up at night for months. We rushed in—she was hysterical, screaming like a terrified banshee, tears streaming down her cheeks. A nightmare? I rocked her and sang to her; we gave her a little milk in a bottle. Still shuddering and whimpering, she kept pointing to the nursery door, so I carried her out to the living room, reassured her that everything was as it should be, and read Goodnight Moon. Calmed, she then squirmed out of my arms, hurried in her sleep sack over to her play area, and promptly began playing with blocks. Certain the night terror had passed, we put her back to bed…at which point she commenced to scream until 2:30am, pausing only when Andrew or I went in to sing and soothe.
Last night marked the appearance of a new scream. High-pitched, shrill, curdling. Once it was no longer a sad, scared scream, it became a demanding, angry scream. One that I’m sure penetrated the walls, perhaps even the back garden, perhaps traveling even to the next block. I am toddler; hear me roar.