The Sleep Strike
My son woke me up at 3:30 this morning and it quickly became apparent that he wasn’t going back to bed anytime soon. By about 9:30 my husband asked, “What’s wrong with him?” Our little bundle of joy had been fed, changed, and rocked. He didn’t have gas and his teeth weren’t bothering him. When he proved impervious to a warm bath even, I decided that I was dealing with a sleep strike. Of course, at nine months old he’s incapable of talking. But if he could, I imagine his list of demands would be something like this:
1. I want more fruit and less vegetables. What is that icky green crap you’re trying to pass off as “mixed veggies”? It looks like snot and I’m having none of it!
2. And while we’re on the subject of food, I don’t want any more prunes. If you want me to poop then don’t feed me bananas or apples. Ever.
3. Do something about your morning breath. I love that you kiss me and coo to me first thing, even when I wake you up before the roosters. But P…U! I might be a baby but I have a nose that smells, you know.
4. What’s with the constant change of diapers? First it’s Cruisers, then Baby Dry, then Extra Protection. My little tush gets used to one thing and then you spring something new on me. Make up your melons and be done with it!
5. I am capable of acclimating to room temperature, just like you. Don’t always assume that I am cold. For Pete’s sake, this is Phoenix, Arizona! Please don’t dress me like I’m an Eskimo in Siberia.
I’d give in to any of his demands if I could just figure out what keeps him from sleeping sometimes. Maybe it means he’s a genius. I heard Albert Einstein never really slept like a normal person his whole life. But while I’m in the middle of my sleep deprivation I think I’d settle for a C-student and a good eight hours of Zzzzzz’s.