Our six-month-old son is an exceptionally light sleeper. Our daughter, Charlotte, was never this way. A fleet of fire engines could furiously plough down our street, followed by a Mardi Gras float carrying Judas Priest performing "Screaming for Vengeance" at full, shrieky tilt, and she wouldn't so much as flinch. Oddly, the only thing that can (and often does) wake her from her deep slumber is the piercing expressions of anguish from her little sibling, Oliver, even from rooms away.
As I've mentioned in recent posts, the little fella is currently grappling with both teething and being weaned, and he's not especially pleased with either. As such, he's perpetually hungry, irritable and very easily riled (much like his father). Around 12:45 this morning came his first nightly assault on our senses. Though he's graduated out of the Moses basket we were originally having him sleep in, he's still in our room at night, albeit now in a roomier "pack'n'play." The trouble always starts with a short, staccato series of alarmed hums that gradually builds in volume and intensity. His little head summarily pops up and starts bobbing, like a miniature, unhappy sphinx. This is normally our cue to intervene. Sometimes he's placated by the bottle. Other times not. Last night was one of those latter times. So began my Bataan Death March-like endeavor to lull him back to sleep. This is sometimes accomplished by putting him on my shoulder and undertaking a slow, bouncy plod around the apartment while gently singing the "ABC" song and "The Itzy Bitsy Spider" in ever alternating cycles. Sometimes, it works.
It's in these instances when the clock seems to inexplicably accelerate. Before I know it, forty-five minutes have elapsed and I'm still waiting for his tensed-up little limbs to relax. Once I have achieved that (usually accompanied by his snoring), getting him back into his pack'n'play without waking him back up demands the type of facile agility, stealth and precision demonstrated by Indiana Jones in the opening segment of "Raiders of the Lost Ark." The slightest accidental sniff, fumble or even gesture could trigger catastrophe.
Sometime around 2 am, I had achieved fruition, gingerly laying little Oliver back into his bed. Wincing from the type of headache that feels like someone's been using a wrong-headed screwdriver to adjust the connection between my skull and my spine, I carefully tiptoed into the bathroom, closed the door ever so quietly, flicked on the light and grappled for the bottle of Excedrin to help soothe my aching brain.
A maddeningly sleepless hour & a half later -- wherein I took great pains not to rustle the sheets too loudly -- Oliver's tell-tale whimper started again. Leaving this session to my wife, I grabbed my pillow and repaired to the couch. Regardless, the sleep never returned.
I know things will get better. They did with Charlotte when she went through this. But if they don't get better soon, Oliver won't be the only member of the household regularly breaking into crying fits
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