Conceited [H.S.]

SIXTY-EIGHT

Chapter Songs:

watch by Billie Eilish

august by Taylor Swift

right where you left me by Taylor Swift

...

ANDREA WILSON

"One more chapter, Andy? Pleeease," Dylan pleads with me as I begin to shut the book in my hands.

This kid does not want to fall asleep tonight.

I have tried everything I can think of. Even bribed him with ice cream for breakfast. He graciously accepted my offer, but he isn't holding up his end of the deal of actually going to sleep.

Now I'm two songs, three books, and one promised ice cream breakfast in, and nothing.

It's not that he isn't tired, I know that because he's yawning every few minutes, but his body refuses to calm down enough to drift off to sleep.

Usually, this would be a team effort, but Oliver is off for the night, and Jo is in the NICU. At this point, getting newborns to sleep seems easier. So, it's just me.

"You said one more chapter five chapters ago," I respond lightheartedly.

I know that lately, he's struggled with going down for the night, but I haven't been able to figure out why exactly. Every night, either Oliver, Jo, or myself has been paged to get him to sleep. Whether he's been given a small dosage of melatonin or put through every method of making a kid tired that we can think of, he fights it.

There's no medical reason for us to use as a starting point for fixing the issue, but it's reaching a point that I don't think it's stemming from being a stubborn six-year-old.

"Just one more, pretty please," he repeats, pouting his bottom lip at me.

He's pulling out the puppy eyes too? Something is definitely up.

I tilt my head at him with squinted eyes, attempting to get an idea of what's going on, but he only pushes his lip out more.

Maybe being straightforward with my approach will do better. Especially considering that everyone else has attempted to fix this problem by beating around the bush.

"Sweetie," I say softly while sitting up from the rocking chair each pediatric room has. I close the Magic Treehouse book in my hands, marking what page I finished on with my thumb while turning my attention onto Dylan, "what's going on?"

His pout disappears immediately, and it looks as if I've caught him standing on a chair with his hand in a cookie jar in the middle of the night. It isn't necessarily an expression of guilt, but I've hit some sort of nerve.

I maintain my patience as I watch him pull the covers over his head, hiding from me to avoid answering. Although I want to get him to sleep, I have to bite back my smile at the action.

He curls into a ball underneath the sheets, and I purposely inhale loudly through my nose before letting it go peacefully, "I've got all night," I breathe out.

Much to my surprise, he stays underneath the covers for probably three more minutes. Fortunately, the chair I'm in is comfortable, so I don't mind. Not to mention, I was told not to leave this room until he was asleep.

It doesn't take much longer for him to give up.

My brows raise at him when he pokes his head out, the covers resting just below his nose.