Sleepwriting

The baby howls in the bedroom, wondering where I am. My two-year-old daughter stands in front of the TV wearing nothing but a diaper and a red Snow White headband. Our friend Dora explores the ocean and dances with Pirates. “Yo ho ho ho, we’re doing the pirate dance.” Indeed. Daddy, a.k.a. Josh, is at a fundraiser at a local brewery, which is essentially heaven for a beer geek like him.

I try to wait a few more minutes before going to the baby, but this sleep training business really sucks the life out of me. I am so beyond wanting any advice on how to get young Linus to sleep. The best way to avoid said advice, of course, is to keep my mouth shut about the sleepless nights. But that’s hard since it’s what’s on my poorly-functioning mind. Truth be told, I lean more toward the attachment-parenting side of things than many people I know, perhaps especially when it comes to sleep. Maybe it’s working mom guilt, or maybe it’s a result of my own struggle with sleep over the years.

When I was 24, I had a horrible bout of insomnia in which I was afraid to go to sleep. I was living at home for six months to save money for graduate school, and at one point, it got so bad that my dad tried holding my hand as I sought sleep on the floor of the screened-in porch. I think it worked. So I guess I have too much empathy for the sleep-challenged to be very good at the cry-it-out thing. Plus, I still suspect that something in my diet is causing part of the problem. I’m working the food-intake spreadsheet and subsisting on wheat-free bread alternatives.

It’s not all doom and gloom around here—far from it. I had an incredible run this morning after digging out the ipod shuffle I hadn’t used in a couple of years. I’m in serious need of a fresh playlist, but I’d forgotten how great running to music can be. I gradually picked up the pace over six miles until I almost felt like the old, pre-baby me again. Almost. Maybe some of you can help me with a new playlist?

The rest of the day was spent in true Saturday putzing fashion. The kids and I hit up a food allergy resource fair where we overindulged in peanut-safe treats and decorated a super-fancy crown with feathers and glitter. My dear girl was too bashful to wear it but insisted that it looked fantastic on me. I wore it with pride, though absconded from my crown-wearing duties when we stopped by Old Navy to buy mittens for the baby.

In the store, I got a glimpse of Linnea as a teenager. When I beckoned her into the ladies’ room to change her diaper, she refused, saying it looked “super gross!” Wah? She wouldn’t enter the bathroom until I threatened to put back the shirt that we had picked out for her. Two years old.

This post has sat idle for several hours, and it is now officially the middle of the night. You know—when normal people are eating gluten-free cereal by the soft glow of a computer screen, and normal dogs are frolicking in the yard because they won’t shut their traps. Between bouts of seemingly limitless crying tonight (the baby, not me), I’ve (finally) been reading Julie and Julia, a young woman’s memoir about cooking fancy French food for a year. Am I feeling guilty about the grocery list on the kitchen counter, which includes, among more natural items, chicken nuggets, the mother of all lazy foods? Slightly. But rest assured, Jamie Oliver, that the nuggets aren’t for my kid—she won’t have them. The nuggests, in all of their salty (yet remarkably allergen-free) glory, will give this tired mom and her almost equally tired husband a yummy if not wholly nutritious dinner sometime this week.

I promise to make a little broccoli on the side. The baby calls…

*****

I Want to Know
What cheesy pop music would be perfect for my new running playlist (help me get current, people!)?
What do you do when you can’t sleep at night?

Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”

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