Image via Wikipedia
Dearest darling Chuck,
It’s been one year, one week and 6 days since I pushed you forth into this world. You’ve been a pretty awesome kid, all things considered.
You slept through the night on December 24th, at 2 months old. (I remember this because we were all staying at the Hotel Max and it was Christmas Eve and I thought that was the greatest Christmas present of all time, except maybe your brother.)
You’ve been fairly portable so far in your short existence…falling asleep in the car on the 90 minute drive to and from your grandparents, and generally being content to play with whatever while I go to the bank or the store or what have you.
Lately though, my tiny bubble of “I am an awesome parent” has been popped by shrieking at 4am.
And 7:00am, 8:19am and 9:22am.
This is after you made the decision that 12midnight – 1am is now your new bedtime.
I, your dearest darling mother who spent the first 3 months vomiting and the following 3 months in bed while carrying you in her womb, would really like to inform you that it is not a crime to sleep for more than 2 hours in a row.
Whatever agency (FBI, CIA, Army, Navy, etc) has already noticed your potential and is training you to be a terrorist interrogator needs to piss off. Using sleep deprivation as a weapon is a horrible idea and I would like to opt out of this exercise and defer your further training until you’re a teenager and I have ample time to obtain large doses of Valium so I can be tired, but really not give a shit.
(The Opinionated Grandma Squad has suggested I let you “cry it out”, but I’m pretty sure after 90 minutes of you screaming at 3am, I should probably let the terrorists win and just pick you up.)
I would also like to address your behaviour over the past few days.
Yesterday, while we were shopping at Target, you chose to pretend to be Randy Johnson and remove your boot and bean some poor lady in the face. She thought it was fairly funny, but I would like to emphasize that it is INAPPROPRIATE to hit people (AND ANIMALS) with anything, including (but not limited to) your shoes, my shoes, the remote control, and any/all of the tupperware in the kitchen.
I would also like to bring up the toilet paper issue.
Toilet paper is a tool you will get to learn about at a later date. For now, it is not a restraint for cats, a decoration for parties (or for the bathroom/hallway), or something to hide underneath when your mother (that would be me) is trying to figure out where you’ve gone, since she only had her eyes off of you for THIRTY SECONDS.
And last but certainly not least, PLEASE stop torturing the dog. Yesterday you managed somehow to obtain a hanger, locate Devil Dog and hook the inside of the dog’s nose all while I ran to the bathroom breaking land-speed records. The dog, to put it mildly, was not amused. So much so, that she’s been hiding in the basement ever since. I’m not sure she’s even eaten.
Later when you’re older and try to ride the dog like a horse (which we definitely frown upon in this establishment), we will have to have this conversation again, but for now, let’s not give the dog any more anxiety attacks. I’m fairly sure doggie Prozac is expensive.
I love you very much, because of all of your quirks, but I swear if you don’t let me sleep, I’m going to lose my mind.
And most of it’s already gone.
A note to the reader: if this doesn’t make sense, I apologize. I have averaged 5 hours of sleep a night for 3 weeks, but only at 90 minute stretches at a time…her interrogator training is going swimmingly.