This morning I was getting Jack and Patrick all situated for breakfast, standing over them by our "sacrificial" (read: covered in baby spitup) green chair. I felt a bump on my calf – and another. Bump bump. Bump. I glance down, and see Virgil standing at my feet. He has been trying to get my attention. He has a (formerly clean) baby sock in his mouth, retrieved from the clean laundry pile atop the guest bed, and an expectant look on his face. "Drop it," I say firmly, and he drops it. I pick it up. He runs to the cupboard where his treats are kept and opens it with his nose, then stands in the open door.
What? he says. Is this not how it’s supposed to go?
Last night, the kid couldn’t even make it til 8pm. He was down by 7:30, asleep about three minutes after being put in his crib. He woke at 1:30 for a quick feeding, and then back to sleep, until he opened his eyes and let out a "get me outta this crib" wail at 7:00 am ON THE DOT. I think. This is going. To work. If he wakes at 1:30 again tonight, we’ll be golden. A consistent night feeding can be gradually migrated away, by half hours. (So a week at 1:30, and then a week where I wake him up and do it at 1:00, and then a week at 12:30, and so on til it’s absorbed into his dinner meal.)
The only way I was able to force myself to wake all the way up and feed him sitting up (instead of the normal barnyard animal lying down sleeping style which I tend to do in the middle of the night) was by taking the band’s mike stands and PA stands and laying them all across the guest bed. Voila. No soft spot to lay. When the time came that I was sleepwalking into the room to care for our little screamer, I looked in dismay at the mess and briefly considered sweeping them all off the bed onto the ground so I could just lay down for one second (snort.) But then I slapped myself in the face, gave myself a stern talking to, and dragged the kid All The Way Down The Hall Into The Office, blargh. As I sat there, furious that I had to be up, furious that my daytime self had done this to my nighttime self, my daytime self kept chanting in this really annoying nasal librarian kind of voice – It’s better in the long run. You won’t regret it. No pain, no gain. And my nighttime self was all, just shut the freak up, ok bitch? I’m sitting here, ain’t I? You gotta rub it in?
I had to take Jack to work yesterday, for half the day. We couldn’t get a sitter, so I just count myself lucky that my job is flexible enough to allow this once in a while, emergencies only, you can bring you kid to work day. He was a dream. Everyone was telling me – you can’t ever complain about this kid again, because he’s perfect. Look at how good he is! You’re lucky you know. And I said – what do you mean, complain again? I never complain about him. I know he’s perfect, and advanced, and very smart. And very good. I know it. Secretly, I think that while a large part of the reason he’s so well behaved is just he’s an even tempered kid, another part of the reason is that Patrick doesn’t attend to his every burble or squeak. From day one, he’s had to entertain himself for a large part of the day. So now he’s good at it. Chalk up one mark under the "Dad of the Year" scoreboard. Now, why doesn’t this work with Virgil?
It snowed over night, and a bit this morning. A light dusting. Beautiful.
i\’m glad to hear the routine is working!! it won\’t be long before you get a full night of blissful sleep. 🙂