I'm jolted awake by screaming from my daughter's room. I throw off the covers and run down the hallway in a clumsy 3:30-in-the-morning fashion: bumping into walls, extending my arms as soon as I enter the room to grasp her even though my eyes haven't adjusted well enough to the darkness to discern her from her tangled sheets and stuffed animals.
It's the type of scream that you don't easily forget: so pained, so irate, so distraught. It's a scream that I can imagine coming from a child who just witnessed their most precious toy yanked from their grasp and cruelly stomped on in spite. Or, from someone being mauled by a bear. That bad.
"Brooke!" my voice is a whisper-shout. "What's wrong? What's the matter?"
It takes a moment until she can articulate coherent words, but when she does this is her proclimation: "I want a milkshake!"
At three-thirty in the morning.
Let me note that this request was denied.
As well as one can, I talked with her about the ordeal this morning as we ate breakfast. "You can't just wake up screaming in the middle of the night, especially about something like a milkshake. Other people are sleeping. You're waking us up." (And when I said "us," I really meant me.)
Brooke appeared compliant. "Sorry, Mommy." She looked at me and smiled, "But, I was thirsty."