3:09am 4-year-old comes into my bedroom, climbs over me, says “covers, please,” and squeezes himself as close to me as possible.

3:10am Not satisfied with level of closeness, 4-year-old says “Hug.” It is a statement, not a question. A directive. I reposition so he’s nestled into my armpit and shoulder region, in such a way that my shoulder will certainly be sore in the morning.

3:11am For a moment I foolishly think we can all fall back asleep.

3:12am 4-year-old starts subtly writhing around in a manner which experience tells us means he has to pee. I know now that he is warm and snuggly from my body heat and the quilts and does not wish to subject himself to the cruel 72-degree air temperature in our home. Nevertheless, I say “bathroom break!”

3:13am To set a good example, I get up and use the bathroom in our bedroom while encouraging him to do the same in the hall bathroom, knowing it will be less bright in the hall bathroom but he can see well enough to pee from the motion detecting nightlights in the fall. He says “I’ll just go after you.”

3:15am I return to my bed and he’s not only fast asleep again but taking up the entirety of the space I recently occupied, despite the fact that he’s 25 inches shorter and significantly narrower than me.

3:16am I go into my office, which is really now the dog’s room. She has marked it so well that calling the carpet cleaner is at the top of my list of things to do. We are working with a dog trainer. I think maybe I can carve out a space to sleep on the dog’s futon.

3:17 I discover that the dog is inexplicably wide awake and making sounds with her mouth like she just ate, even though no food is available to her at this hour. I wonder what food might have been inadvertently made available to her but I am too tired to look around. Because she is awake, the dog wants to be pet and scratched and spend some quality time licking my hand.

3:20am Instead of lulling the dog back to sleep, my attentions have stimulated her and she’s even more awake. I am falling asleep but it turns out I can’t really relax when she is licking my arm.

3:21am I decide to try my luck sleeping downstairs. I move a large pile of toys off the ottoman onto the table already covered with toys and stack them precariously. I move the stool over in front of the big comfy chair where I often slept when I was pregnant because it was the only place I could get comfortable. But the dog has detected my attempts to go back to sleep and has come downstairs.

3:22am The dog goes to the back door as if she needs to pee so I open it for her. Apparently I am standing too close to the door because she refuses to go out. I sit down in the big chair. She goes out.

3:24am I get up to close the door when she comes back in.

3:25am The dog walks over to the dining room table and barks. This is the place she always stands to bark and we don’t know why. She rarely barks anywhere else. There is no food on the table. There is food in the kitchen but she does not bark in the kitchen. Ever. Because I cannot deal with barking at this hour and do not want her to wake up anyone else, I get a bully stick off the top of the fridge and throw it in the crate that I cannot make myself lock her in at night.

3:26am While the dog chews on her treat, I attempt to settle into the blue chair. I put my phone and glasses on the arm and spread the afghan over me. Because I am more awake now, I play several turns in Words with Friends and Hanging with Friends. I spend more time than I should trying to use all my letters on a triple word score. I can’t do it, so I play “cobbled” for 47 points instead.

3:36am The dog is finished with her treat and wants to go out back again. I curse and let her out.

3:38am She comes back in and barks at the cds.

3:39am I go back upstairs. The dog follows.

3:41am The dog and I sit on the futon and I scratch her.

3:45 The dog turns and looks out the window plaintively as if she is waiting for a long lost love to return.

3:50 The dog lays down and rests her head on the arm of the futon, weary of waiting for her love.

3:52 The dog turns around several times and goes to sleep.

3:53 I am completely awake.

4:22am I return to my bedroom to find the 4-year-old curled up perpendicular to his still sleeping father. The 4-year-old is no longer under the covers. I scoop him up, remembering how I went to the chiropractor earlier in the day because of excessive carrying of the boy and the dog that was killing my shoulders and upper back.

4:23am I carry the boy back to his room, careful not to smash his head into any doorways or bookcases and risk waking him.

4:24am I tuck him into bed. He mumbles, “I don’t want to go back to bed.” Not knowing how awake he is, I say “I have to go to the bathroom but I’ll come right back,” knowing part of that is a lie. I recall the recent conversation with my 10-year-old about when it is ok to lie, like if you’re protecting someone from being captured by Nazis. Also, now.

4:30 Hearing nothing more from dog or boy, I return to my bed.