Since I was little, one of my worst fears is a home invasion. I’ve had nightmares, right through buying the new house, of a stranger somehow getting into the joint and creeping into my bedroom while I sleep. Rape, death, Publisher’s Clearing House…the end result doesn’t matter. It’s so terrifying, I’ve made escape routes for each of my abodes. My childhood home? Not to worry; my parents were in the room preceding mine, so I’m pretty sure anyone would get to them first. Human shield x2. The apartment? The fire escape, hopefully running into a 1980’s Richard Gere on the way down. The house? Hide in the closet, all the way to the side, while frantically calling 911 and trying not to die of a spastic heart attack. That’s not the best plan, but really? I’m just a visionary. Or a neurotic.

A week ago, we decided to either potty train the Goose or transition her into a toddler bed. Since I get about…oh…six seconds of sleep every night, I thought the bribery of a toddler bed would be a smart choice. And you know what? After two weeks of the stomach curse (or as I referred to it “El Dia De Muerte”), I’ve had just about enough bodily functions occurring outside of the bathroom. So the babe and I went internet searching and she found the Disney Princess Canopy bed, which is so pink and lame I shudder. But she wanted it, and she said she’d sleep in it, so that’s what the Amazon fairies delivered on our doorstep and the assembly fairy (John) put together. So far, the bed has been measurably more successful than the crib. Getting her to sleep is still a pain, but the continued sleeping or going back to sleep has improved. I get nine seconds of sleep each night. Cue applause.

How do these two paragraphs fit together? A toddler bed lets little feet get out in the middle of the night and pad, Sixth Sense ghost-like, to Mama’s side of the bed. In the dark, all I can sense is movement. The feet are then still, and my midget of a child stares, chillingly, at my sleeping form until I gasp awake, almost screaming that an intruder has finally come. Although it’s not an intruder, it’s a three-foot-tall girl child in pink Elmo pajamas asking for milk, to go downstairs, or to get into my bed.

My heart cannot handle this. And I don’t mean in the “my heartstrings are tweaked, she’s so darling” kinda way. I mean it in a “I’m going to go into cardiac arrest from minimal sleep and fear” kinda way.