2:56am

The Mother was deep in slumber, happily ensconced in a sweet dream when she heard a familiar voice from afar whispering, "Mummy..."

Oh no, the pattern was familiar, she knew how the script would continue. But still, she tried to avoid the inevitable. Dragging herself back from faraway dreamland, the Mother murmured to the little boy at her bedside, "Yes, son, what is it?"

"My shirt is wet," came the rejoinder. It was a euphemism. The Son had been trying to tackle bedwetting for some time but still - accidents happened. He was 5 years old and was not proud about it and would rather acknowledge his shirt getting wet, rather than his pants.

The Mother opened her bleary eyes and peered at the digital clock at the bedside table. 2:56am. Oh, man...

"Did you wet-wet in bed? OK, just give me a minute, ya?" The Mother moved languidly, needing the time to gather her strength and coordinate her body parts which still seemed to be floating in space. She was not angry but obviously not very pleased. Nobody liked to be disturbed in their sleep. Not at 2:56am. But she accepted that it went with the territory of being a Mother.

Guided by the nightlight, she led the little boy to the toilet and stripped him out of his diaper and wet clothes. "You know, you are so big now that even the diaper could not hold your urine," she scolded, not unkindly but matter-of-factly. The boy said nothing. He must have sensed her annoyance.

But that's not all. Changing out of the wet clothes was the easy part. Next in the script was the changing of the wet bedsheet. This was made a bit more challenging when one had to grope in the dim bedroom that was illuminated only by a small night light. The Mother did not want to switch on the main light as the other son who was sharing the bedroom was a light sleeper and the last thing she wanted was to have a grumpy child in the middle of the night.

The Mother used her fingers to gingerly explore the surface of the mattress in order to ascertain the extent of the dampness. If the mattress was just a little damp, then just a towel over it might do the trick. But no, the wet patch was unmistakable. The Son's bladder must have been really full before he went to bed. There was no way that he could sleep over it. Luckily, the mattress could be turned over so that the wet patch faced the floor. This had been done many times before. Then, rummaging through the closet, the Mother managed to find a clean bedsheet and haphazardly laid it on the bed. This was no time to be fussy about housekeeping.

Throwing the pillow back onto the bed, the Mother urged the boy to go back to sleep. She couldn't wait to go back to sleep herself.

"I want my bolster," the boy whined softly.

Ah, the Mother had forgotten about that. She reached for the bolster on the floor and then realised regretfully that the boy's bolster was also wet. She told the boy in a let-me-get-back-to-sleep voice, "You can't have your bolster, it's wet."

"But I want... I can't sleep without my bolster..."

Now what? A flash of brainwave. The Mother got the Son a spare bolster and shoved it to him. Although the spare adult-sized bolster was larger than his own, the Son hugged it gratefully. The Mother pulled the blanket over the Son and tucked him to bed. "Good night," she said as she walked towards the bedroom door.

"Good night," the Son replied.

Then, with his eyes half-closed, the Son continued softly, "I love you, mummy."

The Mother's heart melted. She was suddenly wide awake. She walked back to the Son's bedside and planted a kiss on his forehead. Her love tank was overflowing. She replied, "I love you too, Son."