Stitchpop

The other night, I was pulled from a sound sleep, as I sometimes am, by this:

"Mom…"

Our bedrooms are close enough together that the kids know I'll hear them if they call in the middle of the night. And they don't even really need to call. I seem to be tuned in to their frequency. If they toss, cough, whimper, or simply open their eyes in the darkness and say, "Mom…" I wake up.

I try not to overreact, though. I usually give it two or three Moms before I leap out of bed. One to wake up with, another to judge which child is requesting Mom and with what level of intensity.

So with the first "Mom…" I opened my eyes and waited, listening intently.

"Mom…"

The second was as indistinct as the first. A mellow, unpanicked request. Faint, yet insistent. No hint of whimpering or discomfort. No clue to the child's identity.

"Mom…"

This was weird. It didn't seem to be either rising in tone or settling back into sleep. And I honestly couldn't tell whether it had come from an eight-year-old or a two-year-old.

"Mom…"

Four Moms in a few minutes meant that comforting of some kind was needed, even if the request was still entirely calm. I rolled out of bed and walked barefoot into the hall, still listening, still trying to determine whether it was sleep-talking or a false alarm.

"Mom…"

Which kid is that? I peeked in on Oldest, her arm flung up over her face, hair plastered to her cheek in a dead sleep. I rubbed her back beneath the comforter and kissed the top of her head. No response. Must be Youngest.

"Mom…"

Next door in Youngest's room, I stepped carefully over the carpet, avoiding the creaky floorboards, and leaned over the rail of her crib, putting my hand on her back. She was sound asleep on her stomach, bottom pointing skyward, pudgy cheek planted firmly against the sheet. Totally unawake.

"Mom…"

I felt a chill. I thought immediately of wind over crevices, air traveling through pipes, beams creaking, stray cats trapped in sewers, and other rational explanations. And of course, ghosts. I went back to our room, intending to wake Husband and insist that he search the house and find the lost ghost-child who was calling for its mother so that they could be reunited in the afterlife.

"Mom…"

I looked down at the foot of my bed.

"You little shit," I told the cat. She opened an eye and looked up at me.

"Mom," she breathed through her nostril, the air whistling against the bedspread.