I was rudely awakened in the middle of the night by a spooked-out-of-her-mind Libby, who had frantically jumped onto the bed beside me, hit me in the face with her back end, knocked over my water bottle on the nightstand, and was acting skittish. There wasn't enough room on my side of the bed for her badonkadonk, so I felt startled and bombarded. I was in a dead stupor (thank you, Benadryl!) so I fussed at her and told her to get the hell off the bed. A minute or so later, I regain my senses and realize that Libby jumped on the bed because she was scared, and that she was still scared, so I said this to comfort her:
"Oh no, Libby. Did you have a bad dream? I'm so sorry. Here, come get in bed next to me. It's ok."
Yeah, I said that. To a dog. I was seriously convinced she had been awakened by a nightmare and that was the reason for her scurrying about our bedroom like a maniac. I felt so guilty for fussing at her, when she clearly has been through quite the ordeal already. She's a child, afterall, and nightmares are very scary for children. What kind of mother am I if I don't comfort and reassure her? I then used all of my strength to hoist myself closer to the center of the bed so there would be room for this horse-dog to sleep beside me. She seemed grateful for the gesture, taking a place at the foot of the bed before we all fell back asleep.
I think I am officially the Mayor of Crazyville.