It’s 8am and I have been up for three hours. I was up three times between 10pm-5am. The coffee is flowing, yet my head is pounding and my eyes are heavy.
I haven’t slept longer than six hours straight in over a year. My FitBit stopped tracking my sleep because there isn’t much to track at this point.
I’ve read the blogs and books telling me how to get my baby to sleep. Third kid, surely I know by now what I should do and should not do. He sleeps in his crib in his own room. Put him down when he’s sleepy. Don’t rush in every time he wakes up. Sound machine. No sound machine. Nightlight. No nightlight.
Check, check and check.
I’ve talked to the pediatrician. His words, “Sometimes, kids just don’t sleep. Oftentimes it can be hereditary.”
THERE IT IS. It’s my husband’s fault.
Thank you very much. I rushed home to share the breakthrough news with my husband. He rolled his eyes and laughed. Which is fitting, because the joke is still on me; I still have to get up with the baby no matter whose fault it is or why he woke up.
It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine.
There will come a day when I have teenagers who sleep past noon. There will be a day when I have to drag my boy out of his bed with his eyes heavy. I will remind him how many times I dragged my sleepy body across the house to snuggle his tiny one. The times that we played at 3am. The times that I begged and pleaded for him to go back to sleep. The times that I wanted to cry and he would look up at me and flash his toothy little grin.
