Nighty-Night? Yeah, Right!

Late last night my husband and I suddenly heard the all too familiar footsteps of our daughter as she shuffled into the room. She had her Hello Kitty blanket draped over her head and she was stumbling into everything like an intoxicated E.T. Finally, she found her way over to our bed, lowered herself down onto the floor and laid there, perfectly still in the fetal position. We shot eachother a quick, knowing smile. My husband then scooped her up in his arms and carried her back into bed. To any outsider, I know this scene would have seemed bizarre, but in this house a little sleepwalking is the least of my nighttime worries.

The thing is I never thought much about sleep before marriage and kids. I mean, really, what was there to think about? It was just something I had to do. I didn't even really like sleeping. Too much wasted time. In college, I hung a sign on my dorm wall that read, "You can sleep when you're dead!" Now whenever I think about that sign I wish I could go back in time and slap my younger self. If I'd only known then what I know now, maybe I would've used my time a little more effectively, going into a sort of sleep hibernation to store up some much needed REM's for the present tense.

Here's the other thing. Maybe I never thought about sleep because I was so good at it. I don't mean to brag, but I've always been a great sleeper. Just give me a place to lay my head and Mr. Sandman will take care of the rest. It doesn't even have to be a good place. I've been known to saw logs on any number of couches, carpets, futons, hammocks, cots, rafts, hiking trails, houseboat roofs, airport terminals (thanks for the free night, Heathrow), and according to my baby book, even dresser drawers. I will say that I wasn't fond of sleeping on Colorado Boulevard the night before the Rose Parade but that was more because I didn't like getting my head run over by a motorcyclist than because I was uncomfortable.

I had no idea that an entirely different world of sleep existed and that I was about to enter it. Rewind ten years ago to July 4th, 1998. My wedding day. The day I gave up my hand, my heart, and my sleep to the bonds of matrimony. My husband is a great many things, but a good sleeper he is not. Throughout any given night, he will toss, turn, talk, yell, fluff pillows, flatten pillows, add pillows, and chuck pillows, all within an arm's length of my face. He gives a whole new meaning to the term "pillow talk". In the beginning, it was kind of funny. I'd have full conversations with him while he was asleep. One time he kept repeating, "Kevin... Calculate, Kevin, calculate!" We never did figure out who this unknown accountant was, but to this day, Kevin continues to be the fall guy for everything in our house.
"Honey, did you leave the back door open?"
"No. It was Kevin."

In time, I even initiated my own sleep chats. They always took place when he came into the room a little too noisily after I'd fallen asleep . We had the exact same conversation every time. I'm not kidding. It was uncanny the way we repeated the same lines, word-for-word, like we were rehearsing for a play. Frantically, I'd bolt up out of bed and yell out into the dark,
"Who's there?!"
"It's me."
"Who's me?!"
"Your husband!"
"Who's my husband?"
At this point in the interrogation, he usually just gave up and went to bed, leaving me completely muddled as to who he was and what he was doing in my bedroom. He'd always recount this incident to me in the morning but I never had any recollection of it.

Things only got crazier when Lil' Miss was born. This blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked bundle of love was the antithesis of good sleep. She slept during the day and wanted to play all night. I think pediatricians refer to it as "day-night confusion", but to every young mom in its throes, it goes by a different name: sleep deprivation. We tried EVERYTHING. I fed her, bathed her, and put her to bed at the same time to establish a consistent evening schedule. I found the bath soap with the most suggestive sleep-aid label: "Johnson's Bedtime Bath, Proven to help baby SLEEP BETTER", half expecting her to nod off in the bathtub as I massaged it into her skin. I kept the lights dimmed and cursed my husband if he ever spoke above a whisper. Through clenched teeth I'd scream, "Don't you know I'm trying to create a quiet, peaceful environment for our daughter to SLEEEEEEEP!!!" Even now, all this time later, I still cringe whenever I see those onesies that read, "Party, My Crib, 2 a.m.".

But nothing worked. Weeks turned into months, and months eventually turned into a year. I started to lose my nerve. As my other young mom friends came to life, refreshed and bright-eyed from their full nights of heavenly peace, I became more and more haggard, even jittery. I could fill groceries with the bags under my eyes. I mumbled to myself throughout the day and burst into tears when I made clumsy mistakes. Truly, I'm amazed I never got into any car accidents. There should be laws prohibiting new moms to drive at all. Now I'm convinced that those "Baby on Board" signs are not to protect the precious cargo inside, but to protect YOU, the defensive driver, because you know that new mom driver is holding her eyelids open with toothpicks.

On one early morning that I had never really woken up from (because you have to actually go to sleep to then wake up...) my husband was getting ready for work and asked, "Honey, what's all over the light switch... Hey, what's all over your neck?". I glanced down to find baby poop smeared all over my chest. Yes, I was that tired. I don't think I even cleaned myself up right away, rationalizing that baby poop doesn't really smell much anyways.

We eventually resorted to the cursed "Cry-it-Out". Wag your fingers all you want, La Leche Leaguers, it WORKED! Even still, it was one of the most miserable experiences of my life. I felt like a soldier stationed outside her bedroom, armed with a can of diet coke and listening for any crib ambushes she might attempt. It took ten full nights to get her to sleep. During most of those nights she cried for two hours straight. Sometimes, I could no longer hear her crying because my own sobbing drowned it out. Our neighbors gave weak smiles and claimed they "could barely hear a thing", but I know deep down they hated us for putting them through it too. Oh well, served them right for all the parties their teenage son threw when they'd go out of town.

I'd like to say that was the end of that, but it wasn't. A few months later, her younger brother was born and he also liked to party a la noche. I won't lie. I live in a constant state of mental haziness and daydream way too much about napping. And while no one in my family sleeps well, I wouldn't trade them for anything in the world. I could, however, be tempted by a free stay at one of those sleep study centers...