Holy. Crap.

Bean is terrified of the dark. We've only lived at our current residence since August, so I think he's still getting used to the fact that he not only has a new bedroom, but that he no longer shares it with Cakes like he did at our last house. He's actually asked for bunk beds several times because then Cakes can sleep with him again and keep him company. We'll only be here until next August, so I'm just hoping that he'll get to the point where it's not a big deal.

Since Husband left, Bean has found his way upstairs (his room is in the basement) and into my bed on several occasions when he's had a bad dream or heard a weird noise. He sleeps like a freaking crazy person, so I've grown accustomed to starting my nights out with a pillow laying vertically next to me so that if he does get in my bed, he only kicks the pillow instead of me. It's not ideal, but it's better than getting throat chopped by a little foot.

Usually when Bean does come upstairs though, he is loud. He's a stomper and he stomps wherever he goes, but especially when he's tired. Plus his stomping usually includes a loud, whiny "Moooooom! I had bad dreeeeeeams!!!!". Last night, however, was different.

Around 5:30 this morning, The Wee started crying from his crib. He's slowly getting better about sleeping through the night, so this is about the time he wakes for a new diaper and a bottle. I usually lay there for a couple minutes trying to get the motivation to tend to him. This morning as I laid there trying to gain said motivation, I open my eyes only to see Bean wide-eyed and inches from my face, staring me down. I jumped out of my bed quicker than I think I have ever jumped out of it in my life. He scared the CRAP out of me. I stood there next to my bed for a second watching him as he continue to lay there silently staring at me. I was too stressed out to make sure he was breathing in that moment, so I ran to make The Wee's bottle.

As I'm making sure The Wee is taken care of, Bean starts chanting in a weird, monotone voice, "Five. Two. Seven. Five. Two. Seven." at which point I almost lost it. I literally thought, "I should stop watching American Horror Story because I'm fairly certain my son is now possessed.". I walk into my room slowly to see what he's doing. He's facing the clock as the time changes. He now starts chanting "Five. Two. Eight. Five. Two. Eight.". It was just the time! 

Holy. Crap. I don't know how he not only made it upstairs quietly, but climbed into bed without me noticing. Consider this the scariest morning I've had in a LONG time.