In stark contrast to my memories of babysitting children who just miraculously went to bed and stayed there, last night was...something else.
I've been struggling how to most accurately describe it. There's the idea of a revolving door, because that's basically how my door was functioning last night. But then there's the idea of a jack-in-the-box with that door flying open every few minutes, startling me out of whatever drowsy torpor I'd managed to relax into (not sleeping...quite...but almost). It was bad.
First it was Zoë, I think. She'd had a nightmare.
(No, first it was Alexander, just screaming in his bed; I went in to comfort him and retuck him in and so forth and then left and then Zoë came into our room).
I told her she could sleep in the cozy chair in the corner.
Next thing I know she's speaking right into my face: "I can't sleep in the chair."
"You can sleep on the floor, then. There's an extra pillow in the corner."
A few minutes later she's speaking right into my face again: "I can't sleep on the floor either."
Then back to bed she goes.
A few minutes later, she runs into our room again: "Still can't sleep. It's too scary."
Nope. Gotta get back to bed.