There is nothing quite so terrifying...

...as muting the TV at 12:15 a.m., because you thought you heard something odd from upstairs, and hearing your child's muffled screams of "I need help!"

Hubby went racing upstairs to see what the problem was (I don't race much anymore).

I followed at a more sedate pace, figuring it was not a terribly emergent situation because Hubby hadn't been hollering for me to come help with a sick kid or something.

Which, admittedly, was my first thought: that Large Fry had either puked in bed or somehow accidentally wet the bed.

Turns out the problem wasn't nearly so dire.

It's a quirk of our house.

The door to Large's bedroom, when it's pulled shut all the way, tends to create a vacuum of sorts and sticks.  She woke up, tried to open the door, and couldn't get out.

I asked the obvious question of why she needed to get up.

"She just did," Hubby said.  "She wanted to sleep with us.  I told her we weren't sleeping, so she had to go back to her bed and sleep."

Of course, I and my late-night snack (so I can take my antibiotic) set off the kitchen-level smoke alarm a few minutes later when I had the oven open too long.  (Thing is so sensitive.  Darned irritating when I don't need it to be that sensitive, but I tell myself I should be grateful it is that sensitive.)  However, I didn't hear anything after I got the thing hushed, so I figured Large--who knows the alarm is touchy when she's awake enough to remember she knows that--wasn't bothered.

Sillies.

I'm eight paragraphs into this, and I mute the late-night Nick Friends marathon.

She's crying again.

Hubby is still upstairs with her, so I'm guessing she needed him to lay in her room with her for awhile.

Or, more likely, lay in our room with her for awhile.