Waking a sleeping baby

First, some corrections to last week’s writing. Larry is our neighbor. Colloquially known as “Mister Larry” so we misunderstood. Larry did in fact see five police cars recently and he is an upstanding citizen. My apologies for besmirching his name. Second, Pop has a beard. I forgot that and, in doing so, offended him. This is the first time I’ve had to issue corrections. Surely, it will never happen again…

Sometimes, I pretend I don’t hear the baby crying. I’m not proud of this.

And yet, who among us hasn’t committed acts of shame at 3am in the morning? Ye without sin, and such…

It’s not as though I ignore him entirely. I just…wait…to see if maybe the better half will go get him first. I keep an eye half open on the clock and give it sixty seconds. If the minute number changes, I go. But her generous spirit typically moves faster than my self-centered clock watching.

When she goes, I pretend I never notice, and I feel guilt but not shame.

Sometimes, well. Ok. This is, ok, look. I don’t want to include this, but this is true. Sometimes, when I’m at my worst self. And this almost never happens. But sometimes. Sometimes, I hear the baby crying and I roll over in a way that I know will wake the better half up and then I roll back over and pretend to be asleep.

Who among us?? Are ye perfect? Nay. Hold your stones, I say.

Look, there’s an illogical sense of self-preservation I feel in the wee hours of the morning. An evolutionary, lizard brain urge that says when it’s dark, I should be asleep. This primal impulse insists it would be in my worst interest to move in any direction, let alone open my eyes at all.

And to be clear, I completely agree. Even awake and sober-minded, I see my lizard brain’s point and doth not protest.

The last thing you want to do in the dead of night is wake up a sleeping baby.

And even though he’s crying and technically he’s the one waking us up, when I walk into his room (because sometimes I do go!), he’s not actually awake.

Half the time his crying seems involuntary. It’s more like confused moaning.

When I reach down to pick him up, he doesn’t even open his eyes. His head just lolls against my shoulder with the limpness of a toy cowboy pretending it’s not fully sentient.

If, however, I go to immediately place him back in the crib, he jolts awake with the fury of a thousand men. His fists clench, Tears appear in the creases of his eyes. The pacifier shoots out of his mouth and hits the wall. Screams intensify. Blood curdles.

His brother, just across the room, never moves an inch.

I’ve experienced this agony enough times to know how it works now. So, when I pick him up and he immediately falls asleep against my chest, the shot clock starts.

But unlike American sports with their logical clocks counting down, this sleep timer draws inspiration from the leagues of European soccer. The clock counts up and there’s no real pre-determined end. Maybe it’s ninety seconds. Maybe five minutes. Maybe there’s stoppage time. No one knows. Not even the fourth official.

I am alone, holding and waiting. What I’m waiting for is hard to describe, but there is a sense of knowing when he’s all the way back asleep. And the only way I think I can tell is by how much he weighs.

When I first pick him up and he’s partially asleep, he weighs a certain amount. But when sleep fully takes him, he drops all tension and gains three to five pounds. You can literally feel sleep envelop him as his body completely relaxes.

Noticing this is more art than science. Sometimes, I get it wrong (and when I do, I pay). Sometimes, I get it right, and I’m back in bed ten minutes later.

On those days, I wake the next morning without much thought to my middle of the night incursion.

Then, the better half asks if I was up with the boys at all and I say, yes but just for a bit. Then, I look at her eyes, and I can tell. She’s lying.

She heard him get up and waited me out. I know it. Another night has gone by, and I’ve lost my own selfish game.

Tomorrow night, I’ll roll.

Thanks for reading this far.

- jd

And also…

I didn’t want to believe the hype around seeing a movie in IMAX 70mm film, but it completely overdelivered. Even at 7:45 in the morning.

I can see a world where I collect coasters. I don’t know why. But I do know I’m not in love with that side of myself.

Popcorn is better than ice cream.

I’m 34. Shoutout Nolan Ryan.