Little Monster
Halloween can evoke a lot of fears in people. For some, ghosts and goblins and the grim
reaper’s hooded figure. For others (ahem, Sox fans), umpires making ‘tricky’
calls in the 9th inning of a tied World Series game. I used to be afraid of the typical things.[1]
Of bad guys, of horror movie scenes replayed in my head, of the serial killer
who rode on trains that my brother warned me about, of spooky chills, and loud
creaks upstairs where no one sleeps.
Well folks, I’ve gotta say.
I’m now afraid of a new monster at night. And this one is far more ruthless, powerful,
and downright scary. Her name is Adalyn, known to her late night minions as
Fussy McNoCrib.
I should preface this by saying that Sheaff, Wallie and I
were spoiled positively rotten during months 3-12 of Adalyn’s life. She was a
sleeping champ, and our bleary-eyed nights were few and far between, making us
get down on our knees and give thanks to the Baby Gods for showing us favor.
And then, The Monster reared her head this month. Powerful
kicks against the crib’s mattress signal that the Monster’s slumber has been
disturbed, and the sound sends Sheaff and me rocketing up, looking at each
other in horror for the third time that night. In the dark of her lair, her
eyes don’t glow red….much worse…. they are observant, clear, watching, and most
horrifyingly Awake. She uses her claw[2]
to point at her prey (Sheaff, Wallie, myself) while luring them in with doleful
whimpers. Then, once within reach, she wiggles and worms and squirms, throwing
her war cry into the air…NO SLEEP FOR ANYONE she calls. Her weapon: sleep
deprivation. As the haze of exhaustion creeps into our minds like a fog across
a graveyard [of brain cells], we will try anything to get her to sleep.
Everything you say you’ll Never do as a good parent goes out
the window at 4:30am when you’ve been up for 3 hours and time to blissfully lay
in bed, horizontally, beside your warm husband is slipping away minute by
minute. We have taken turns doing all
the wrong things. We walked her; we rocked her; we swayed her; we bounced her;
we put her in bed between us; we sprawled out on the arm chair with her on our
chest flipping around. We gave her warm
milk in case she was hungry; cold yogurt in case her teeth were hurting (Like
this would help??). We checked her diapers and rubbed her tummy and gave her
fuzzy blankets and snuggle bears and bedtime stories and lullabies. We read her
Sheaff’s old CPA books, tried hypnosis, drove her on the entire NJ turnpike[3]
and played all the videos of the third quarter of football games as
genetically, she should not stand a chance of any sort of alertness during this
15 minute stretch.
Some nights, nothing works.
None of the above is a good idea or bodes well for our
parenting report card, but our brains barely function well on a good day, much
less in the middle of the night with a wailing baby punching our muddled senses
in the face. Was it the pressure of turning 1? Teetering on the edge of a
developmental leap? The deboobing and loss of her dear loyal Bessie? She hasn’t told us yet.
So. We continue to learn and yawn and stick to the strategy
that seems least harmful to our long term hopes (i.e. 5 straight hours of
sleep). We are realizing that as soon as we think we have it down, she decides
to screw with us. One day, we will laugh and smugly decide what amazing thing
we did that “fixed” it, when in fact, we have nothing to do with it. I tell
myself in these witching hours, “One night you will sleep again.” But then I remember my parents staying up
when I was in high school until my brothers and I got home safely (and god
knows, teenagers put the Texas Chainsaw Massacre to shame when it comes to
fears that will keep you up at night!).
Three o’clock am is a tough time to realize that parenthood is a long,
long, long road that will most often entail dark circles under my eyes. I guess
anybody who says it’s not has never answered to mama, or dada, or been entirely
responsible for a very tiny, very stubborn, very real and amazing life.
And yet. Even in our blurry, sleepy stupor, it doesn’t
matter if the night is full of tricks or treats. The warm heavy weight on our
shoulders may be a little monster, but she is Ours. And usually, that knowledge
will at least get you to the morning, where daylight and a large cup of coffee
await.
[1]
“Used to” being a very relative term. As in, like, three weeks ago when Sheaff
made me watch a scary show.
[2]
Seriously, it is REALLY hard to cut the World’s Wiggliest One Year Old’s finger
nails!!
[3]
For anyone who is wondering, Sheaff and I have in fact driven this around 2am,
and it is not nearly as wonderful as the Simon and Garfunkel song “America”
illustrates it to be. Counting the cars on the New Jersey turnpike is boring
and lame.
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