Terrible Twosome

It's been rough goings around our house recently. Within the span of a few weeks, I got a nasty ear infection, the husband blew out his knee and has since been utterly useless, and Sweet P started cutting her second set of molars and contracted a cold on top of it. And now, after too many days of playing mother and nurse and employee without a break, I feel hopelessly on the verge of succumbing to whatever germs have been swimming around my shirt-turned-toddler-tissue.

Tonight, the strain of our woes seemed to be too much for Sweet P to bear--or maybe it was just that she hasn't had a decent nap in days. Whatever the reason, I witnessed one of the firsts that all parents dread but know is inevitable--the full-out, horizontal tantrum.

Before bedtime, were playing quietly and happily with her animal flashcards in her bedroom--she wanted me to read each one aloud before she put it back in the box, but slowly her tiredness got the best of her, and before long, her aim was way off. She became suddenly and utterly frustrated by the fact that she wasn't getting it right. With her little nose all red and chapped, and her face drawn into a dramatic scowl, she kicked the box away from her, then dove into the carpet with a flourish and proceeded to writhe around screaming, twisting her body in the agony of knowing she was out of control.

The most terrible part? I could not help but feel like laughing at the intense absurdity of the episode unraveling before me. Somehow I managed to choke down my chuckle, but the stifled giggle was the only thing that kept me from diving right onto the carpet next to her and pounding my own fists in frustration.

A deep breath, a favorite book, and our stand-by night-night lullaby CD later, and the tantrum was forgotten, dissolved into the still black night. And, by some small miracle, the child went peacefully into her own bed, where she still slumbers as I sit here and pay bills, sleepily sort through email, and try to wait it out until at least midnight, convinced that as soon as my weary head hits the pillow, she will cry out for me in the dark.

I'm fifteen minutes away from tomorrow, and I cannot fight it anymore--I must relinquish control and throw myself into my pillow and hope that my sleep is uninterrupted for just one night. One night is all I ask--or October is going to be off to an especially ghoulish start this year.

One Step Forward, Two Steps Back...or, You Do the Math

It is said that it takes 21 days to form a habit--and, indeed, it took just about that long for me to feel confident that Sweet P had made a major leap in her sleep routine: being able to go to sleep in her room, and, most shockingly of all, remain in there peacefully the whole night!

We had long settled into a routine of her going to bed with me, because shortly after her first birthday, she suddenly showed signs of having nightmares--and she became panicked when we tried to put her to bed in her room. So, into our bed of bleeding hearts she came, and she stayed there until my parents watched her during our anniversary trip to Vegas in August.

I prepped my mom to serve as a surrogate security blanket while we were gone, but, miraculously, that first night, the little darling let my mom put her to sleep in her room. The same happened the second night. I couldn't believe it--and I certainly didn't expect this new behavior to continue once Mommie (aka Softie) returned home. But it did. For almost a month straight, it did.

I was giddy to have my evenings back to myself--to actually be able to do things outside our bedroom at night! And I felt quite justified in knowing that our often-questioned approach of cosleeping had been right on target--we knew Sweet P would transition to her own bed when she was ready, and our trip out of town simply provided the opportunity for her to show us that she was indeed ready to move on. We couldn't wait to show up all our skeptics! But then the backsliding began.

As luck would have it, Sweet P's breakthrough came right on the cusp of my going back into the office full-time. She started waking up again in the night--sometimes repeatedly. And if such wakings occurred past midnight, into our bed she came. And slowly her waking crept up to 11:00, then 10:00, every night without fail. So here we are, back at square one, doing what it takes for me to get some semblance of sleep--and, boy, do I need every spare minute of sleep I can get, now that I have to face the public every morning before caffeine has fully entered my bloodstream.

I'm certain that my sudden absence during the day has much to do with this--and in crunching the numbers, the evidence adds up: I now am away from my baby girl for 10 of her 12 waking hours, 5 days a week, which means that in total I spend only 34 of her 84 waking hours with her every week--40% of her conscious life. Not even half. So I can understand why she wants to make up some of that missed time at night--and, even when her foot is jammed in the nape of my neck, or she unconsciously yanks my hair in the still of the night, I have to admit that I like making up the time this way, too.

I am not a very ferocious zombie.

Baby Gator

Do humans and alligators share a common ancestor? My first-hand observations in the habitat of the human toddler lead me to suspect that this might be the case, as the human child is known to perform violent death rolls eerily resembling the gator's signature move when asked to settle down to sleep. (Or is that just my own darling baby gator?)

 

Such rolls seem to be triggered by a few specific phrases: "Go to sleep," "Time for night-night," and "It. Is. Time. For. Bed." Just when you think the child is on the verge of drifting into the peaceful slumber promised by her gentle lullabies, she suddenly thrashes around, rotating her entire body madly in a wild spin, as if to physically shake off the impending sleep threatening to overtake her.

 

These intense and disturbing rolls are known to strike at the most unexpected moments--not only at bedtime but occasionally after a restless waking, shortly after you have cast off all defenses and drifted off to sleep yourself, rendering you powerless against the sheer force of the attack. The child has keen precision in timing her move at the exact hour when you are most likely to be immobilized by exhaustion and laziness, desperately hoping that you can manage to soothe the savage beast while simply lying as still and calm as possible to avoid further provoking its activity.

 

The best defense indeed is to quietly wait out the episode while praying that the tiny gator tires itself out and resettles into the comfy position atop your tightly clenched chest before you are awake long enough to stimulate your nervous system into keeping you up for an hour past the creature's journey back to slumber-land.

Sweet dreams, sweet beast, sweet dreams.

 

This post is brought to you by

Co-sleeping

Ants in the pants

and

Mommie's fifth straight day of fighting an ear infection