It’s about 2 a.m. I’m sitting here in my dark office, waiting for my sister Holly (otherwise known as Heelya) to get here. She’s on route from Myrtle Beach. We’re running the tri together Sunday.
Henry is asleep, which is a rare and beautiful thing these days.
We’ve had a rough couple weeks. He’s been up through the night every HOUR. To cope, we’ve started to sleep with him. It’s the only way he’ll conk out and STAY conked out.
That’s not to say he doesn’t kick off the night in his crib. It’s just that by midnight he’s usually crying, marking the start of what I call the One-Hour Hell.
But this is a relatively new development. My child used to be an expert sleeper. I hesitate to say “used to,” considering his past only goes back four months.
Before I was schooled in the powerful use of the word PHASE, I made the dumbass mistake of BRAGGING about Henry’s sleep habits.
“My baby goes down at 9 o’clock and sleeps til 6. Aren’t I a lucky mama?”
Now I know why other mothers glared at me when I said this. I couldn’t tell if they wanted to murder me or if they knew something I didn’t know.
I think it was a combination of both.
As one of my friends with a two-year-old told me, “Babies change by the second. Everything is a phase.”
There’s the money word. Phase.
So here I am, waiting for Heelya to arrive, thinking Henry is in a no-sleep phase and it’s 2 a.m. and he’s still out.
PS. I’m blaming the wakefulness on teething, although Joe and I fear it’s some kind of sleep regression. Let’s hope we’re wrong.