Sleepless in Minnesota
There’s a superpower that comes with having a toddler and an infant: The Ability to Function on Very Little Sleep. Personally, I’d rather have the ability to fly, but we take what we’re given.
Four hours straight? That counts as a full night. Three two-hour increments? Yes, please. Even five consecutive hour-long naps is better than nothing. Which is only a little less than what I got the other night.
I overshot my caffeine intake. Then, on more than one occasion, Roy decided he needed my body (and only my body) next to him in his big boy bed. Vera threw extra nursing sessions and a 3 AM solo dance party into the mix. The next day, I was a drooling, zoned-out shell of a woman with the patience of a hummingbird. So pretty.
My friend Liz up the street has kids roughly the same age as mine. That night, she posted on Facebook: “Need a new bedtime routine for chubby buddy Frank, our current state of affairs is DRIVING ME FRIGGING BONKERS!”
Desperate, yes. But the fact that she possessed the energy to use all caps and an exclamation point told me she had yet to hit bottom.
Liz and I often have super interesting conversations. They go something like this:
Me: “Yeah, we didn’t get much, OK, hey, please stop that Roy. Let’s do something else, OK? Thanks, sweetie. Uh. What was I saying?”
Liz: “Sleep. I know. He cried for two hours straight last night. I don’t, um, Vivi, let’s go upstairs then. Here we go! Up!”
Me: “Yeah, I’m not sure if it’s teething or a growth, uh, whatever. Spurt. Growth spurt. Spurt’s a word, right? Spurt?” [Baby starts crying.] “Hey, little lady! What’s wrong?”
Liz: “Yeah, spurt. I know. Who knows? I’m thinking about letting him cry it out. Here you go, Viv.”
Me: “Shhh. It’s OK. Shhh. Hold on a sec?”
And then we solve world peace. The end.
With Clint it’s an unfair pairing. He’s more well rested, which is good for him. Yay, I’m happy for him, getting all that great rest. So happy.
Working against him: The fact that he’s my husband and therefore should know how to read my damn mind.
Me: “Please put that thing back in the, um, thing for me. Would you?”
Clint: [Pause.] “First: What thing?”
Me, gesturing: “The, uh. You know.”
Clint: “No. I really don’t.
Me: [Staring, with eye daggers.] “C’mon. Help me here.”
Clint: “I want to.”
Me: “Do you? The thing!”
And then he hands me a bottle of really good wine, which I drink, and then I “sleep” all night long. The end.