The raptors from Jurassic Park have nothing on the tiny.

Their pitched screams crash through skin, numb the bones and endure like waves of the sea.

There are wins; the demons snoring and still after hours at their side, coaxing in the dark. These windows of grace have been small and few yet offered a twisted hope.

My wife and I enrolled at sleep school.

We read books and we handed in our homework.

A consultant stopped by. She did not meet him, though, because he was asleep. For two and a half hours. 

There have been set routines. Best practice, of early dinners, reading and soothing lullabies.

However, after a few nights he gets wise and it ends with tears, bribes of milk and lugging the wailing imp to our bed.

One recent evening there was shooshing, hair stroked and a firm “Time for nigh nighs” or two.

But I laid my crying boy down beside me.

Tired from the day I accepted defeat, but not without dreams of escape.

With Little Mate still, I shifted and turned so not a tiny limb rested on me.

Stirred, he threw a pudgy arm across my chest, and shoved face and closed eyes into my armpit. 

Enjoying the cuddle, I smiled.

While he smelled the vile odour from hours of volleyball and netball I remembered those small wins, their slumber in a world where cruel deities laugh at plans prized.

From the first lot of snores I planted a hand on the floor. His resting arm fell on the bed, but he did not wake as I tumbled onto floorboards.

Chris O’Leary