The cease-fire
I still remember that cold December night like it was yesterday.
I was moments away from drifting off into the land of dreams when I felt a sudden jolt in my side.
My eyes flew open, and I winced in discomfort. Was the brat next to me intentionally trying to ruin my beauty sleep? It wouldn't surprise me at this point.
I lay there, waiting for his smug little face to appear, but he just kept tossing and turning restlessly. After a few minutes of enduring his agitated movements, I gave up and crawled over to his side of the crib to investigate.
What I found was a sickly-looking child sweating profusely and mumbling incoherently. He was obviously having a nightmare, and it was breaking my heart. What kind of dreams could a one-year-old have that would leave him in such a state?
Before I knew what I was doing, I reached out and took his little hand in mine, smoothing out his disheveled hair with a gentle touch. The child calmed down almost instantly, and I found myself staring down at him with a mixture of surprise and confusion.
What had compelled me to care for the brat in such a tender manner? Was it some kind of maternal instinct, or was I just too soft-hearted for my own good?
The next morning, I was woken up by a sharp kick in the ribs and an acidic glare.
It seemed that my kindness had not gone unnoticed, and the brat was not impressed. I retreated to my side of the crib, feeling hurt and rejected.
But deep down, I knew that I couldn't stop caring for him, no matter how much of a miscreant he was. So, every time he had a nightmare, I found myself crawling over to his side of the crib and comforting him, even though it meant sacrificing my own sleep.
It wasn't until one night when I decided enough was enough.
I woke him up in the middle of a nightmare, ignoring his threats and scowls.
At first, he seemed hesitant to open his eyes, but after some shaking and prodding, he gasped and bolted upright.
He looked ready to explode in anger when I spoke my first words to him. "You hat' a night'smare," I blurted out in my childish voice, complete with a slight lisp.
His eyes darted up and down my face, as if he was just realizing that I had (yet again) overstepped my boundaries and ignored his warnings.
Before he could start fuming in anger at my intrusion (which was imminent judging from the scowl on his face), I quickly spoke up.
"You hat' a night'smare," I blurted out in my childish voice, complete with a slight lisp.
For being almost a year and a half old, I could speak reasonably well, and I knew he could too. But he never cared to make small talk with me, choosing instead to ignore my very existence.
For a moment, his face went blank, and I wondered if he had even heard me. So, I said it again, this time more firmly.
"You hat' a night'smare."
He slowly blinked and widened his eyes, as if something had finally registered in his peanut brain.
I waited, anticipating his response, but he just stared at me, confusion etched on his face.
With a sigh of defeat, I closed my eyes and prepared to return to my side of the crib when his hand shot out and grabbed onto my clothes, preventing me from leaving.
I looked down at his little hand, then back up at him, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
He looked as surprised as me (if not more) at his own actions, as if he was amazed that his hand could reach out and seek the touch of another being.
"Les' me go," I said in a hushed voice, confused by the situation.
Some strange expression crossed his face.
"No," he said, his voice firm. "Stay."
What nerve! How dare this little brat order me around like that? Was I his minion or something?
I narrowed my eyes, ready to give him a piece of my mind, when suddenly he seemed to panic and pulled me closer to him.
"Stay," his voice was shaking, and the commanding tone was gone.
Realizing that this was the closest thing to a "please" that I would ever get from him, I sighed and returned to his side. Slowly, I disentangled his chubby fingers from my pajamas and held them in my own.
I faced his confused and somewhat appeased baby face and gazed back at him with a reassuring half-smile. I placed my free hand on his warm cheek, our foreheads touching, and spoke in a gentle tone:
"S'sleep, now."
The boy complied.
And that was the beginning of our nightly truce.