It was 10:30pm last night and a scream peirced the house.
“NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! MOMMY! NO! DADDY! NO!”
My heart launched into my throat and sank at the same time. Harry was having a night terror. I ran into his room and found him thrashing in his bed, eyes tightly shut as he screamed. I sat by his bed and attempted to rub his back, his chest, any body part that was near me as he twisted and turned and screamed. I “shhhh”ed and whispered softly that he was okay, that Momma was here. He didn’t hear any of it because he was still soundly asleep.
I felt helpless. My little boy seemed so legitimately frightened, unable to calm down or be consoled. I considered picking him up but remembered the last time I tried that and the black eye I nearly got. Instead, I sat and talked softly and prayed it would pass. I knew I couldn’t wake him up without shaking him or yelling, which would only scare him more. So I sat and waited it out with my heart pounding, like so many other nights.
While it seemed like such a terrible thing, I kept reminding myself that he wouldn’t remember any of it and that he was safe. That it was just a part of growing up for some kids and it’s harder on the parents who DO remember the screams.
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