Well that was a friggen nightmare.
The Who has been wetting the bed, quite out of the blue, after almost a year of not doing that and we discovered that limiting his water (cutting it off before dinner) seemed to nip it in the bud. (We did visit his pediatrician today to be sure, but she was unconcerned.)
Tonight, though, after two nights of resigned compliance, he spent hours whining at me that he was thirsty and I subsequently spent hours denying him a drink in the name of dry nights. When he was finally in bed, quietly whimpering about his thirst, I decided that it was nuts to be telling him on one hand to honor, respect, and listen to his body and on the other hand telling him to ignore what his body wanted (which was just a sip of lukewarm tap water, so it’s not like he was trying to score a can of Sprite or anything.) The wife and I decided to let him have a drink and wake him when I went to bed for a “dream pee.”
Well. I don’t know for whom this actually works or how you get it to work, but it was all I could do not to snap his arms off and drop-kick him back to his bed.
Whine whine whine whine whine. Refusal to pee. Loud complaints. Wouldn’t stand, wouldn’t sit, wouldn’t give up and go back to bed. And all this in the room next to my sleep-disordered wife for whom a good night’s sleep is not a luxury, but a necessity. At one point I actually stage-whispered to him, “I am begging you. Please stop crying so Mommy doesn’t wake up.” But trying to reason with a half-asleep, angry three year old in the middle of the night is like, well, trying to reason with a half-asleep, angry three year old in the middle of the night.
I did finally get him to pee by just saying, “here it comes; it’s coming” and just willing it to be true. Then there was the insistence of hand-washing, which seemed to be done from within a body-case of molasses and then — ready for this? (Of corse you are, but I, naively, was not–) he asked for a drink of water.
I quietly denied it, urging him to his room, hoping he would get there before the Grand Poobah of meltdowns, which I knew was coming, but instead he lost his ever loving marbles right there in the hall in front of Mommy’s room.
I snatched him up under his armpits and carried him down the hall, where the middle-of-the-night tantrum reached its pinnacle. Because he, of course, wanted to walk down the hall to his room, not be carried. He wanted to walk, thank you very much.
All’s well that ends well, I suppose as now, a mere 30 minutes later, he is snug in his bed asleep again (after walking back to he bathroom and then back to his room again in a classic do-over) and I am sitting here wondering what the hell my options are. Deny him beverage? Sadio-masochistically continue to wake him to pee at midnight? Resign mysel to 3am sheet-changes?
Remember when I said three was not so bad? (Ok, I can’t remember if I said it out loud or not, but in fact, just yesterday, I was thinking it.) Anyway, yeah. Not so much.