The last three nights IN A ROW have been horrible, and last night capped it off. Little Sophie woke up two times – once at 1:30 AM and again at 4:00 AM. Screaming. For the whole world to hear.

Complaining about booboos. Yelling, “Diego potty!” And lots of other stuff I can’t remember because I haven’t had a straight 8-9 hours sleep in days. And I’m one of those people who really needs an uninterrupted night’s sleep.

After last night’s torture-fest, I was convinced I’d encounter a permanently traumatized Sophie this morning. Truth be told, we’ve been ignoring our darling little 2-year old during her psychotic middle-of-the-night fits. I’ve been feeling somewhat guilty about our reluctance to cuddle her when she seems to be having such a hard time of it. Maybe something is really wrong, I think. But, as lame as it sounds, it’s just too hard to get out of bed. What assuages my guilty feelings, however, is that she always wakes up happy as a clam, having conveniently forgotten the hell she’s put us through during those godforsaken early morning witching hours.

We had friends over for dinner tonight, so the girls didn’t get to bed until after 10PM. Chloe whimpered a little bit when Maxime ended the nightly hugs, but quickly fell off. Actually, I’m the one who’s been traumatized by her odd behavior. Here I am, tired as can be, yet unable to fall asleep because I’m waiting, with bated breath, for the telltale noise of crib movement that foreshadows an imminent onslaught of screams.

Perhaps Sophie will pleasantly surprise us tonight. If I were a praying woman, I’d kneel on the floor next to my bed and implore the gods to spare us until morning. For a few short hours. But since I’m a heathen, I’m going to cross my fingers instead. And if that doesn’t work, I’m going to make a Sophie voodoo doll tomorrow, and douse it in a healthy dose of Benadryl.