After reading my, Cruella, story on, The Grownups Wanted Us Dead, my sister Caryl commented that the Cruella head worked fine during the day, but it didn’t keep the kids from coming into my room at night to sleep with me. Actually, the only kid that came into my room at night to sleep with me was Lenny, and he was escaping something much worse than a disembodied head — a wet bed.
I am, and have always been, a very sound sleeper. That’s the excuse I am giving for replaying this scene too many times: Little baby Lenny would enter my room in the middle of the night and pat my face with his tiny, baby hand, then he would say, “Auntie Charwene, Auntie Charwene, can I sweep wif you?” I always whipped the covers back and helped him crawl into the bed, where he would flop down and slap a cold, wet diaper on my thigh. An automatic flex of my leg would immediately send him flying back out onto the floor.
He landed wailing pitifully, “Why’d you poosh me?” That would finally wake me. His tear stained face and sad little eyes always broke my heart. I’d pick him up, apologize, clean him up, and we’d both go back to bed all dry and comfy. And cuddly — kind of like this memory.