Like having a newborn again. Except maybe worse.

I can count on one hand the number of full nights of sleep I've had in the past three weeks. Those with infants can start the eye-rolling right about now. Blame the five-year-old with the overactive imagination and, therefore, frightening dream sequence every night. It's not that we've never been through this before - Anna went through a phase when she was about this age, landing herself (and the scaredy-cat sisters that have followed) a designated spot on the floor beside my bed after a middle-of-the-night waking. I even keep a pillow there to greet them.

I can handle having my sleep disturbed in the wee hours of the morning. What, between potty trips during pregnancy and nursing babies for 7 years straight, you'd think I'd have this down. I must be getting too old for this. Because when Rachel comes in and has to relay every detail of her dream, begging to climb into bed and then whimpering when I resign her to the spot on the floor I so carefully planned out for her (why, oh why didn't I let Tim talk me into a king-sized bed 10 years ago?), I find my end of the conversation escalating and then culminating with a "if you don't shut your mouth, I'm gonna..." Fill in the blank - I'm full of empty threats. Before you know it, mom has become the nightmare and Rachel gets my spot in the bed. I pop an Excedrin for my migraine, find some business to take care of (tonight's flavor - blogging) and 2-3 hours later I'm asleep again. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Rachel, it's a good thing you're a dream when you're awake, because you're killing me.

And just to remind me how loveable you are, an adorable picture of you: