The amazing, vanishing Sam

Sam fell out of bed the other night. Actually it might be more appropriate to say that he slid out since there was no thud, at least not that I heard. David had gone into work to fix some computer problem, so I was alone with all 3 kids. Jackson was asleep upstairs, Clara was asleep on the couch next to me and Sam was yangling in bed. You had to go back and read that last part again, didn't you? The word yangle comes compliments of my granny. I can't give an exact definition of the word but I know yangling when I hear it, and since Sam has no discernable words he yangles. After about an hour Sam got really quiet and I thought to check on him to make sure he was still alive. You see, Sam still has frequent apnea episodes while he sleeps and sometimes (and when I say "sometimes" I mean several times a month) we plug him into his monitor and then forget to turn the monitor on (and when I say "we" I mean David). This may sound horrifying, but really, it's not like we actually do anything when the apnea monitor alarms. If we're downstairs and the monitor alarms it usually stops (meaning Sam resumes breathing) by the time we get to the top of the stairs; so why bother getting off the couch, right? And if we're sleeping we usually don't hear it. Oh c'mon, how many of you sleep through the beeping of your alarm clocks? It's the same thing. But I always like to make sure the monitor is at least turned on; you can't accuse me of neglect. So I left Clara sleeping on the couch while I went upstairs to Sam's room. There was only a small amount of light from the hallway but it was enough to see that Sam was not in his bed. Well, what the hell? It's not like Sam can climb out of bed and walk away. I looked under the blankets and the many suffocation hazards pillows in his bed. What? His own brain fails to signal him to breathe - a few fluffy pillows are not a big threat in comparison. The pillows are there to prevent him from banging into the wall or the bed rail. And the bed rail is clearly supposed to prevent him from falling out of bed. It still hadn't occurred to me to look for him on the floor. I did, however, think to check his apnea monitor. The monitor was turned on and the display showed active heart rate and respiration so I knew Sam was somewhere in the room at the end of the long monitor cord. Then next to the monitor, hooked through the bed rail that was supposed to keep Sam in bed, I saw a foot. Sam's foot. And attached to that foot was Sam, upside down with the upper half of his body on the floor and lower half up against the bed. I quickly scooped him up into my arms and felt a mix of relief and absolute horror. I have no idea how long he was like that and, although he didn't seem upset or hurt, I felt like the shittiest mom to have allowed that to happen to my sweet boy. I held him for a long time and hugged him and kissed him and told him how sorry I was. I felt awful that not only had we failed to secure his bed for him but that he, this pure and completely dependent child, had to lay on the floor waiting for his mommy to get a clue and help him back into bed. Once I got him tucked into bed again I went back downstairs and ignored the beeping apnea monitor some more.