Last night was one of those nights that remind me why people stop at two.
After several glorious nights of sleeping in 6-hour stretches, Aramis (aged 5 months) decides to go back to a two-hour schedule. So there I am, bleary-eyed, at 2:30am…
I feed him lying on my side in bed because it’s just too tiring to sit up. And most of the time I’m somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.
Then it happens. Without warning he stops suckling. He looks at me intently. He gives The Grunt. And then he smiles a slow happy smile and continues to suckle.
And as for me, I smell something that makes me less than happy. Not wanting to look but having little choice, I lean over as far as I can without disturbing his breakfast, and confirm my worst fears. A spreading goo trickling out of his diaper onto the sheets. No, no, no….
I struggle upright, and the cleaning begins. I try not to wake Pilgrim Dad. Pulling off and washing bedsheets is not my idea of how to start the day right. Not when I’ve barely slept. I’m feeling very sorry for myself.
But then I see him – the little guy fed and diapered, and perfectly, happily, sound asleep. And for a few brief moments, sleep is a mere commodity, something I am glad to trade for another thing of infinitely greater value.