I curl up into a ball, motionless. Barely daring to breathe, I keep my eyes squeezed shut, hoping against hope it will work. Maybe he's like the T-Rex in Jurassic Park. If I don't move, he won't be able to see me. And then I think, how on earth did a freaking paleontologist know how a T-Rex sees? Focus, I need to focus. Absolutely still. I will him to leave, to find another victim.
"Mama? I wanna watch a moofie!"
Don't respond, I think. Just don't do anything. He could decide to climb back into his crib and go back to bed. Stranger things have happened. Like Lady in the Water. How did that movie happen?
FOCUS. Don't move.
"Mama! I wanna watch a moofie! Come on, Mama. Mama?"
This tactic isn't working. Clearly he's not related to the T-Rex, although his biting and scratching skills put the ancient predator to shame. "Go ask Daddy," I mutter, willing myself to hold on to sleep.
"I wanna watch a moofie!"
"I know. Go. Ask. Daddy."
There's an interminable silence; every nerve is tensed, waiting, hopeful. And then I feel it--a pudgy little hand on my back, patting me affectionately.
"I love you, Mama!"
He wins every time.