Had a fairly rotten day at work Friday retrieved by a lovely evening with Mojo, first at IKEA (our published reason was to pick up more laminate floor) then out for a short one at McMenamin's St. John's. Got home to find the Peep still up, so I read him the last half of his Thomas the Train book and tucked him into bed. Less than an hour later he was crying and shivering in one of the worst night terrors he had in a long time.
This was the first one I'd seen where I couldn't console him. He wanted his mom and nothing else would work. Even Mojo wasn't the perfect answer; he continued to sob, scream, shiver and scrabble around his dark room for ten minutes or so before finally calming and returning to bed.
It's hard to say what is worst about these terrors; the sight of your child in the grip of completely overpowering fear, or the inability to help and comfort him. It's not much consolation that you know with patience and just presence he will finally return to sleep.
Fear - some kind of fear, waking or sleeping, his and mine - seems to be always waiting for us. I hate that truth, but my hate doesn't make it any less true.