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Archives from 2002-2006

Somebody left me a comment recently about how their kid was a tough nut to crack when it came to sleeping, and I’ve been rolling that particular turn of phrase over and over in my mind over the last few days. Just when I think I’ve got it figured out and I’m ready to taste the sweet sweet nutflesh of a full night’s rest, behold! Another indehiscent layer resisting my various husk-gnawings.

When I first stopped giving Dylan a bottle at night, he was furious with me. He’d wake up and start blatting, I’d go in there and pick him up, and the instant he realized a bottle wasn’t making its way to his cry-hole he’d fix me with a penetrating stare and bring his little squirrel-paws together in the “more” sign. Bap bap bap went his hands while he bored intense holes in my eyesockets, and when I shook my head firmly and said no, he would dramatically arch his back and attempt to fling himself from my arms headfirst onto the floor, FOR WHAT WAS THE USE OF LIVING.

I took this as a good sign, really: he got it. We were, like, communicating. He at least knew I wasn’t sitting there slackjawed and clueless as to his state of despair, I knew what he wanted and I was saying no.

Things picked up after that, after a few angry wailing nights he was waking up with a different set of expectations — that one of us would soothe him, but the midnight milk train run had ended. We gradually adjusted from picking him up and rocking him to simply reaching in the crib and patting his back. That seemed to put him back to sleep, and I figured we were inches from an interruption-free night.

Then he started waking up as soon as I’d walk away from the crib after the back-patting routine. I pulled up a stool and reached through the bars of the crib, in order to deal with the discomfort of leaning over the top of the bars. Then I realized he was okay as long as I was nearby, I didn’t necessarily have to be touching him after a while. I just couldn’t leave, because no matter how comalike he appeared, his eyes would fly open the instant I straightened up and started tiptoeing from the room.

The last few nights I’ve found myself in Dylan’s room at 1 AM, trying to sleep on a stool while leaning my forehead against the crib bars. Right. Might as well get the BOTTLE back out, right? At least I could be in the goddamned rocking chair then.

So last night when he woke up, I picked him up, held him for a bit, then gently/firmly told him, “It’s time for night-night, Dylan.” I put him back down with no lingering, patted his butt, told him I loved him, and left the room. Then I huddled in bed not breathing, waiting for the inevitable shrieks. Which didn’t come. Sure, he woke up for good at the ungodly hour of 7 AM, but still.

I very much doubt I have cracked this nut yet, but I sure hope we’re on the right track. Because, seriously. I am not nearly smart enough for this shit. As much as I love this kid with all my heart, I can’t help finding myself wanting to scream into the wee-hour darkness: IT IS JUST SLEEPING OH MY GOD IT SHOULD NOT BE THIS HARD. When clearly, it IS.

She asked if I planned on having any more children and when I said no she mentioned the option of getting a tubal ligation during my C-section and I startled my own self by blurting NO. No, no, no. No I don’t plan on having more children, no I don’t want to rule out the possibility that I’ll change my mind.

But after he was born, my second child, I gave away my maternity clothes. I sent boxes across the country to pregnant friends, I filled bags for Goodwill. Hundreds, maybe thousands of dollars of tent-shaped items, even though it sort of broke my heart to do so. I remember carefully folding everything and stacking things in a trunk after my first pregnancy and the subsequent dusty nostalgic joy of unearthing them during my second. This time, there was nothing to save for.

Then I started giving away baby clothes. The tiny outfits that only fit a newborn, the blankets, the sleep sacks. With the exception of my very favorites which I plan to have made into a quilt someday, I gave it all away. More boxes. More bags. I gave away the swing, the Bumbo chair, the Bjorn carrier.

All that time, I thought, this is my last baby. There’s no need to hang on to this stuff. But in the very, very back of my mind, I thought: I can always buy more. If I need to. Because, I don’t know. Am I really never going to be pregnant ever again? Am I really never going to care for a brand-new baby, ever again? Is our family complete? Is everyone here?

(You are thinking, at this point, that now is when I tell you that I’m pregnant.)

I love my baby Dylan more than ever, and if anything my heart sustains new bruises every day at how quickly he’s moving away from babyhood. In actual walking steps: he’s running away from me. And oh, my Riley, my big kid. My babies are boys now, both of them, and those early, indescribable days of infanthood are over. Those days of pregnancy — of breathless anticipation and the marching miracle of growth — are over.

And for whatever reason, it’s only recently that I’ve truly believed, in every hallway of my heart, that I’m okay with that. I’m ready to say goodbye. To fold up those memories and place them, carefully, in the trunk of my soul. To carry them with me, but continue stepping forward. They will grow dusty, because that is the betrayal of our lives, but they will be there.

With me. With us. We are all here now.

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