Anyone Have a Trailer for Sale?

There are always those milestones you look forward to. The first smile. The first words. The first steps.

Then, there are those you dread. The first temper tantrum. The first bout of explosive ass disorder. The first tattoo. The first boyfriend you have to punch in the face. Can a 5-year-old take a punch?

This week, we hit one that was a little bit of both: first day of child care. We looked forward to Sydney spending time with others and beginning a life that reaches beyond the walls of our humble home. But we – well, really Brooke – dreaded the idea of Sydney facing a whole new world on her own and entrusting someone other than her parents to care for her.

Here’s how we prepared:

We set out with steely determination on the Friday before to conquer Sydney’s desire to sleep during the day and party all night. For some reason, when 11 p.m. comes around, Sydney turns into Lyndsey Lohan looking for VIP treatment at a Hollywood nightclub. She wants to rock and roll all night.

This was fine when Brooke did not have to work. She could stay up with her and then catch up on sleep when Sydney finally hit a wall and turned into Rip Van Winkle. But with Brooke returning to the classroom, it was imperative to put Sydney on a better schedule. Being the smart parents we are, we gave ourselves a whole two days to accomplish this task.

My cousin, Melissa, loaned me a book to help educate me on proper sleep habits. It is written by a doctor who is some type of sleep svengali for children. He gives great advice, but he also acknowledges 20 percent of kids will be difficult when it comes to developing good sleep habits.  Believe me, a 20 percenter is occupying my house.

Previous to this day, we had spent our evenings keeping Sydney up so she would be exhausted come sleep time. This obviously did not work and it required a lot of energy on our behalf as we spent the night tossing Sydney around,  teasing her with toys and even undressing and redressing her to keep her awake.

The book pointed out a different way. Dr. Svengali said to put the child to sleep EARLIER, shortly after the early-evening feeding when she showed signs of fatigue. He pointed out the early sleep time would actually help her sleep LONGER. This is fuzzy math to me, but I am no svengali. And I am desperate.

So this became part one of our strategy. Part two was advice we received from every parent we knew: shut the door and let your child cry it out. Sooner or later, she will fall asleep and after a night or two of this, she will go down easy and sleep through the night.

Getting my wife to agree with this was sort of like getting Chaz Bono to embrace his inner womanhood. She wanted to go a completely other route. I think there is an electric current that runs through her body every time Sydney cries. But I stood my ground and used the pressure from other friends to convince her we had to take this drastic step or she would roll into work every morning looking like, well, Lyndsey Lohan after a night of VIP treatment.

Armed with our two-part strategy, we roared into Friday evening ready to conquer the world. Twelve hours later, we crawled into Saturday morning ready for a six-hour nap.

Sydney went down around 8 p.m. when her eyelids looked like they were weighted down by 20-pound barbells. An hour later, she sprung awake with an indignant look of How dare you put me to sleep so early.

The next two hours consisted of Brooke and I cringing in our bedroom as we listened to our daughter scream-cry over the baby monitor. One of the worst feelings in the world. Brooke was saying things like, “I know her tiny little brain is thinking that we have abandoned her,” while tears welled in her eyes. Ouch. Take that, daddy!

Look, I am not an experienced parent. I have no idea whether we were doing the right thing. I did what I always do: I asked for advice, processed it and made a decision. I may not win any father of the year awards, but I was doing my best.

She eventually fell asleep, only to repeat the pattern a few hours later and to finally wake up for good about 5 a.m. Saturday night was not much better. By Sunday, we had abandoned our plan. Essentially, we decided to play it by ear. Put her to sleep when she was tired and hope for the best. You can imagine how that is going.

Nevertheless, Monday rolled around and it was time for our visit to Miss Amber’s house for Sydney’s first day of child care. Mom and dad would have been zombies on this day, but the nervousness over this new experience for Sydney was enough of an adrenaline rush to get us going. Our mood was somber, similar to what you might expect as you prepared for a funeral. Brooke had been crying since Friday, but this was D-Day.

I immediately started calculating our monthly obligations in my head to see if there was any way we could afford my wife quitting her job and being a stay-at-home mom. We can do it; we’ll just need to get rid of one car and move into a trailer. Brooke quickly nixed that idea.

The first thing I learned that Monday was introducing a baby into the morning routine means getting up earlier and moving around faster at a time when you’d rather plod. The second thing I learned is that you should always have a burp cloth on your dress shirt when handling a baby.

The handoff went smoothly. Miss Amber couldn’t have been nicer and more understanding of my wife’s inner turmoil. Sydney was oblivious. To her, this was no different than a trip to the grocery or doctor. Hell, it was a lot better than a trip to the doctor – no one at Miss Amber’s was going to prick her ass with a needle. At least I hope not...or we’d have a much bigger problem than day care dread.

Our drop off ended with me hugging a tearful Brooke good bye and praying everything went fine or I was going to have a basket case of a wife when I got home.

And fine it was. Miss Amber even texted us pictures of our smiling baby looking like she was spending the day on Sesame Street. I think Brooke went from worrying Sydney would be ok to worrying she liked child care more than her own home.

And the kicker? She somehow came home exhausted. We could not keep her awake. She slept for two hours. The kind of sleep where if you tickle her feet or play patty cakes with her hands she doesn’t even lift an eyelid.

Of course, that means she wasn’t tired when bed time rolled around.

Sigh.   

At Least She's Not Nicknamed Puff Baby

Sydney is 7 weeks old and has five nicknames. At this rate, she will accumulate 35 nicknames in her first year on earth.

How does this happen? Why are parents so quick to call their children anything but the names they spent dozens of hours debating and sweating over? Shouldn’t this be the time we spend working hard to get her to recognize her real name?

I already told you what we went through to pick Sydney Grace. It was quite the ordeal. So the fact that on any given day she might hear five other names come out of our mouths is a bit distressing to me.

But I can’t stop.

Sydney’s nicknames and the story behind them:

Snorty Magee: She snorts when she is angry and crying. One doctor said her nostrils just aren’t developed enough yet. I sure hope this doesn’t carry over into adulthood. We all know someone who snorts when they laugh….it is very annoying.

Tree Frog: She parks herself like a tree frog on my belly.

Crankypants: Pretty self explanatory. I did some figuring the other day. Sydney probably spends about 6 hours a day just feeding. She sleeps another 13. She is awake and pleasant for about an hour. That leaves four hours a day when she is crying about something or another. Thus, Miss Crankpants.

Porcupine: I gave her this nickname and I really don’t know why. I think “P” words just sound good for babies. Pumpkin Pie. Precious. Peanut. Pudding. Pudding pop. Poopy.

Peanut Butter: My wife gave her this name because she was singing a Raffi song called Peanut Butter Sandwich. I probably don’t need to tell you I have no idea who Raffi is, why he has such a stupid name or why he devoted a whole song to a simple sandwich.

I am confident and relieved none of these names will follow her into adulthood. As kids get older, baby names fall by the wayside. Sooner or later, she won’t be cranky, right? And no matter how big my belly is, she eventually will not be able to sit on it like a tree frog.

But we all know some kid who somehow managed to keep an embarrassing nickname into adulthood. Pee Wee. Bubbie. Buster. Bunny. Marky Mark. Puff Daddy.

Let’s not forget my brother, Little Dick.

I don’t know what nicknames I had when I was a kid. I did have a couple as I got older. I had hair like Leif Garrett in high school – hey, it was the ‘80s -- and one of my buddies decided it looked like a Tumbleweed on top of my head. He and another guy started calling me that. They even copied some signs with my picture and “Tumbleweed” written across the top and hung them around the school. Yeah, funny. Why couldn’t I be the Italian Stallion, Snoop, The Rock or even 50 Cent? Instead, I am nicknamed after some dry grass.

Another guy thought I looked like Tony Dow on Leave it to Beaver and called me Wally. It didn’t really stick, although my best friend who I hung out with all the time became known as Beaver, and that did stick. Later, I went to college and asked Beaver to keep an eye on my girlfriend. He kept his eye on HER beaver and they are married today, so now I have another nickname for him that I will not print in this family blog.

Brooke says the only nickname she can remember was one in college, where she became known as Breeko in some circles. This happened after a night when someone under the influence of an herbal product inadvertently inverted the vowels in her name.

I’ve always been partial to nicknames devised from initials. I always thought TJ was cool when I was a kid. I became known as BG after I got older. Brooke was Brooke Marie. I guess she could have been BM, as in, I just had a BM. Her brother is Blair Jason…BJ. Hmmm.

SG doesn’t really have a ring to it. And I don’t really like Syd. Too masculine. I hope Sydney ends up with a really cool nickname. How about the Fresh Princess? The Material Girl? Lady Gaga? No, I guess I’ll pass.

In fact, I am not sure there are really any cool nicknames for a girl. I think we’ll stick with Sydney Grace. Judging by Miss Crankypants’ first seven weeks, it will be hard enough teaching her that one.  

Beating the Feedbag for my Daughter's Love

Parenting, it turns out, is a competition.

And I am losing.

Who is working harder, getting less sleep, changing more diapers or more quickly winning the love of the child? These are the things mom and dad debate in the first months of a child’s life.

I’m under no delusion that a mother’s life isn’t difficult. But somehow we dads are the Winklevoss twins of parenting: we get no credit for a project that will ultimately be a tremendous success.

I am eternally grateful my wife has chosen to be the nighttime caretaker on weeknights, when I have to work the next morning. I dread the thought of her returning to work after next week and us splitting nighttime duties.

Yes, Sydney has decided that, even though she sleeps 17 hours a day, it is best for her to continue to ensure a few of her awake hours occur after midnight.  In fact, she seems most rambunctious after her late-evening feeding. She may be a vampire.

Side note: last night, a weekend night, I had night duty. Sydney slept a solid 5 ½ hours, from 12:15 a.m. to 5:50 a.m. I am taking full credit for it. All hail, King Daddy!!! Clearly, she knows that when daddy is in charge, she must behave.

Back to story: So nearly every morning, I awake to find Brooke sleeping in a different room because she has moved Sydney around the house in an effort to calm her crying and get her to sleep. My wife appears to be getting less sleep to me, and she is not afraid to let me know it. “Oh, are you just waking up? Must be nice. I think I managed about 22 minutes last night.” Yawn.

But is she really sleeping less? After I leave for work, what exactly does she do? How do I know she doesn’t sleep all day. Yes, I get a solid six hours and she might only get three at night, but does she then turn around and get five more during the day? Who really knows? You know she’ll never admit it, because then she can’t play the “sleep” card every morning and make me feel like former presidential candidate John Edwards, abandoning his wife in a time of need.

But, before I let her win the title for less sleep, I am going to sneak away from work some morning and peek through my windows to see exactly what goes on around here when I am gone. I suspect I am going to find one huge slumber party.

As for changing diapers, I concede. She is home alone with her all day, so there’s no doubt. Plus, as I have already acknowledged, I am not above passing off the baby with a smelly surprise hiding below her belt.

Working harder? Come on. I work all day THEN come home and take care of the baby. Brooke catches up on Jersey Shore reruns during the day. Yeah, she gives me all that “we did tummy time today” jazz, but how long can that take?

Brooke will argue that even while I am home, she is the primary caretaker. Maybe so, but it takes a lot of energy at the end of my long, hard work day to pump Sydney’s arms or tickle her feet in order to keep her awake so she will sleep after midnight.

Please someone, give me the check mark on this one.

But the final, and most important, competition is the battle over Sydney’s love. Secretly, each parent wants to be the main apple of their baby’s eye.

This morning, Brooke told me that Sydney smiled at her. I quickly shot her down with the retort that the baby is too young to smile yet…at least to smile for a conscious reason of happiness. Brooke just got a reflex. My thinking?  I can’t let Brooke claim that victory!

One of my favorite things to do is grab my child, sneak off to a hidden corner and ask over and over again, “Who is your best friend? Daddy is.” If I can somehow tell her this a million times over in the next few months, it will come true. I am playing subliminal mind tricks with a 6 week old.

I will step up my game soon and whisper the word “Da-Da” a few dozen times a night in hopes it will eventually be her first words.

Nevertheless, I am losing the battle because my wife – whom I have nicknamed “feedbag” – has the hunger-quenching milk Sydney craves every three hours. I feel like Sonny Bono or Art Garfunkle or Selena Gomez or Russell Brand….I am definitely the less glamorous and desired one in this duo.

It becomes obvious every time I’m holding her and she starts crying, only to have her mother come over, snatch her from my arms and make the noise disappear. Talk about putting dad in his place. If I ever had any illusions I was winning this competition, Sydney shatters them with the sounds of silence.

But it is only a matter of time before my subliminal messages kick in.  I like to look at this as a race between the tortoise and hare. Brooke may be out to a big lead, but I have a lifetime to catch up.

Sydney Will Someday Hate Me for This

I went a few miles out of my way the other night to buy diapers. We were parked in the parking lot of a super market when my wife said, “But I have a coupon for $4 off if we go to Walgreens.” So, we drove across town to save $4.

This is what parenthood does to you.

Remember who I am. If I am really, really hungry for Arby’s and the McDonald's is two miles closer, nine out of 10 times, I am hitting up the McDonald’s. Convenience is a hallmark of my lifestyle. Why do something yourself when you can pay someone else to do it? Trickle-down economics. My wife likes to say my middle name is “relaxation.”

So to get me to drive from the parking lot of a grocery store across freaking town to save $4 on diapers? I never would have thought I’d see the day. But when you are going through diapers like they’re dollar bills at a strip club, you get desperate.

By the way, I probably haven’t been to a strip club in 15 years. I went to one in Windsor for a bachelor party, probably in the late ‘90s. I think I went to one in Atlanta about that time, too. I have lived in Cincinnati off and on for 17 years, and I don’t think I have ever been to a local club.

I’m not saying I haven’t had my share of adventures. In college, I swore I and a stripper in Florida had solid eye contact and she would soon be mine. We had a connection. It took my buddies dragging me out of the club and screaming at me that it was HER JOB to have eye contact with me before my wet dream fizzled.

In my 20s, at my first job where I worked a later shift, a few of us liked to relax after work with a jaunt or two to some of the fine gentleman’s establishments in Rockford, Ill. (“Fine gentleman’s establishments” seems like an oxymoron to me, like “jumbo shrimp.”)

But overall, I’m just not a strip club kind of guy. I don’t see the point in spending my hard-earned dollars on a woman whom I have zero chance of taking home that night. If I am going to be out and about, let it be at a regular club where I have at least a tiny shot at some action (this is pre-marriage, mind you). Wives and girlfriends should understand: the safest place for your man to be on a Saturday night is in a strip club. Those women want nothing to do with him except to discover the fastest way for his dollar bills to find a home in their G-strings.

But, I digress.

Our mountain of pre-baby diapers has become a molehill. I knew we would go through diapers, but I underestimated the rate….which means I underestimated the cost. I’m not a cheap guy, but I do like to spend money on things that are enjoyable. A fine dinner, a gangster movie, a trip to Vegas…shitty diapers are not on the list.

It seems like Sydney needs changed every couple of hours. Brooke likes to change her before every feeding, which is about every three hours. Sometimes, she needs changed in-between. I have to admit, I sometimes see that little blue line on the diaper and I turn her over quick before Brooke notices. If she is going to pee again soon, it might as well be in the same diaper. It saves me money and a little wetness can’t hurt, right?

I have self-diagnosed Sydney with Explosive Ass Disorder (EAD). Don’t bother looking it up in Webster’s or your New England Medical Journal. It’s a term I personally coined.

I believe this to be a hereditary disease, because the first time I ever encountered it was when my dad got a little older in life and was spending time at my sister’s. I happened to visit one day and my sister explained a “Holy-Crap-Mother-of-God-Hide-the-Women-and-Children” moment she had trying to clean up her bathroom after my dad’s bout with EAD.

Yeah, I went there.

I was afraid to even visit that bathroom after what came out of her mouth. I drove two towns over to my brother’s house just to take a whizz.

So grandpa passed on his EAD to my precious little child. First, she has enough gas to fuel a Sunoco station for a month. I don’t really have a reference point to compare her to other babies, but I estimate she farts at least 10 times an hour. Yes, she even farts in her sleep. That’s 240 farts a day!!!

Then, there are times when I am holding her and I can just tell she is going to the bathroom while she sits in my hands. There is a rumbling, then a sound like water gushing over Niagara Falls. That is what a liquid diet will do to you. Good lord, this child needs some roughage. If I am lucky, Brooke does not hear this and I can stealthily hand her over to play with her mama, who will no doubt discover the equivalent of a murder scene in her daughter’s pants shortly thereafter.

How much is my daughter going to hate me when she grows up and reads this?

So, my life of convenience and relaxation is now the equivalent of life on a chain gang. I used to sleep through the night. Now, I feed and change diapers. I used to nap on the weekends. Now I use them to catch up on everything I didn’t get done during the week. I used to watch my favorite TV shows. Now I spend all evening keeping her awake so she will sleep through the night. I used to buy whatever I needed, wherever I wanted. Now I drive across town to save $4.

Someday, very soon, she is going to smile when I pick her up. A few months after that, she’s going to call me “da-da.” A few years after that, she’ll squeeze my hand tight as she enters kindergarten for the first time. Later, there will be high school graduation, freshman year at college, calls about her world travels, the excitement of her first job and maybe even the chance to walk her down the aisle.

In other words, it will all be worth it someday.

Diapers Have Fronts and Backs?

My first night alone with Sydney ended with my wife arriving home to find two dirty diapers on the coffee table and her daughter dressed in only her diaper and half an onesie.

But at least Sydney was alive. I’m pretty certain Brooke was concerned that might not be the case.

She attended a wedding on her own. It was not that we couldn’t find a babysitter.  I wasn’t invited. One of her friends tried to be conservative with the guest list in order to control costs and I did not make the cut.

A lesser man would be offended by this. But you have to realize, inherently, I am a lazy person. If given the choice between dressing up, sitting through a long church service, talking to people I do not know and dancing to Celine Dion or lying on the couch watching ESPN in shorts and a t-shirt, I think you know what will get my check mark every time.

So I became the babysitter. Although when it is your kid, you really can’t call it babysitting. In fact, it is a little insulting to dads. Nobody ever says a mom is babysitting. We dads are considered a bit incompetent when it comes to caring for our own children, so we are placed on the same level as babysitters.

A lesser man would be offended by this.

The night started uneventful, with Sydney sleeping for a couple of hours. But then it was feeding time.  Brooke had pumped ahead of time, so I was ready. I’ve been doing a few feedings here and there for weeks, so this part of the night went smoothly.

But then, a bit of trouble. I checked her diaper and there was some nastiness down there. Up until this point, Brooke had been the primary diaper changer in our house. She doesn’t have a lot of patience for fools, and if she sees I am not so good at something, she just takes it on herself. Why teach a man to fish? My diaper duty pretty much ended the day I put one on backwards. I did not even know there were fronts and backs to diapers!

Now, alone by myself, the pressure was on. I managed to put this one on frontwards, but when I went to tape the sides together, I pulled the tape right off the diaper. Strike one. I grabbed a second diaper, lined it up right, gently pulled the tape and managed to get everything right. Except, when I lifted her up, it sagged deeply.  Not tight enough. Oh well, why waste another diaper? Let’s roll with it.

About an hour later, that became a big mistake. I heard a rumbling that turned into an explosion. I scrambled to contain it, hugging the sides tight to her body so nothing spilled out. I actually did ok. But I made sure the next diaper fit her like a Kim Kardashian sweater. Tight.   

My wife is deeply involved in my daughter’s bowel movements. The doctors tell us this is a way to ensure the baby is eating right…count the bowel movements. Take a look at them to see the texture and color. No thanks, doc. Sounds like a job for the wife. So, to assist Brooke with her mission, I left both diapers open, sitting on the coffee table. The only one happy with this was the dogs, who got to sniff a new smell for the rest of the night.

Meanwhile, in between two diaper changes, I had to take on and off her clothes. Most days, Sydney doesn’t even leave the house. Why does she even need clothes? Sydney doesn’t like socks. She kicks them off. She doesn’t like pants either. Well, her dad doesn’t. He doesn’t have the patience to put them on and take them off. Her legs are always getting caught up in them, especially those pajamas with footies in them. So, I made an executive decision and the socks and pants were ditched. Then, I unbuttoned the onesie at the bottom and pushed it above her waist to give me easier access to check the diapers. She essentially sat around in a diaper and a t-shirt the rest of the night. This would not make my wife happy. But who cares? She was sipping wine, eating wedding cake and dancing to Celine Dion.  

By the way, my wife called twice in six hours to check on me. Like I said, there’s not a lot of faith there. A lesser man would be offended. One of her calls came while Sydney was in the middle of what would be a two-hour crying jag. I practically hung up on her. I’m sure that inspired confidence, but I was a little stressed. No time for niceties.

In fact, that crying jag was the worst part of the night. My solution to these things is to move Sydney from position to position until she is comfortable and quits crying. I’ll hold her like a football, put her over my shoulder, cradle her, set her down flat, prop her up….anything to get the crying to stop. Unfortunately, we didn’t seem to find a comfortable position that night. She basically cried until she ALMOST fell asleep.

Oh, yes….sleep. My job was to keep her up until her late-night feeding, at about 11 p.m. We’ve discovered she sleeps better at night if we keep her up from her dinner feeding until her late-night feeding. This is not as easy as it sounds. You could stand four feet apart and throw her back and forth like a basketball and she could sleep through it. I have even used an ice cube to help keep her awake. It only works half the time. When a baby is tired, a baby sleeps.

So, keeping her awake was one of my jobs that night. Mission accomplished…thanks to my singing, my making her dance and my doing many other things that annoyed her enough to keep her crying because I wouldn't let her sleep.

So Brooke came home to find that her baby was not only alive, but awake. As ordered. Did I get a thank you? Heck no. She was more concerned with the dirty diapers on the coffee table and the lack of clothing on our daughter.

A lesser man would have been offended.

My Wife Says My Posts Are Too Long

Q. What do these have in common?

-- A British Petroleum station
-- A recently fueled Hummer
-- A long-haul trucker
-- My wife
-- My wife’s daughter

A.    They are all full of gas!!!!

Almost Too Tired to Post About Being Tired

I’ve heard of sleep walking. Last night, I witnessed sleep breastfeeding.

It’s quite the story. But first, background on where we are:

Everyone told us lack of sleep is an issue with a newborn.  But until you experience the bleary-eyed, zombie-like reality of it, you have no idea what havoc a screaming child will wreak on your life. (I use “screaming” when I describe her actions instead of crying because I really don’t see a lot of tears coming during one of her “fits.” What I do see is a lot of tonsil. This child could put Axl Rose to shame.)

Since when does one celebrate getting four hours of sleep in a night? Since Sydney Grace Gregg came into the world.

In the hospital, we wanted to be super parents. The first night, they highly recommended she go to the nursery because of the long labor we’d been through. That was fine. But the next night, we wanted her in the room with us. One, because we wanted to be with her and two, because we knew we had to get used to nights with her.

Well, about midnight, she made a bit of a gurgling noise and I looked over to see her choking. I jumped up and grabbed her and noticed she was beet red and trying to scream but nothing was coming out. I turned her to her side and cleared her airway as she gasped for breath. The doctors later told us she probably was choking on amniotic fluid.

That was all we needed to confirm we’d need eyes on her 24-7. We did not sleep the rest of the night or into the next day. Now, by the next night, we were exhausted. She was awake and crying. NOT a good combination. If I did not have a shaved head, I would have pulled my hair out.

We finally gave up and sent her to the nursery. So much for super parents. Only one night into it and I had already abandoned my daughter.  So far, my parenting skills are on par with Britney Spears.

Our first night home was our first night without a safety net. The baby was up until 6:30 a.m. The next night was ok, but the third night, she was up until 7 a.m. It is not that she didn’t sleep, but she would go to bed at about 11 or midnight, wake up at 2 a.m. or so and stay up until the morning.

And this is not “up” and looking around curiously wondering what is happening with the world. This is “up” and doing her impersonation of a fire engine siren. There are periods of calmness, but most of it is screaming. My daughter has not yet grasped the concept that she can be awake and happy, or simply awake and silent. If she is awake, she is generally conditioning her lungs for a career as an opera singer. She is either sleeping, eating or screaming.

I attribute this all to gas bubbles. I have noticed her quietly trying to fall asleep when, all of the sudden, her face contorts like Joe Cocker and her body starts writhing like a scene from The Exorcist. This inevitably culminates in a scream. Then, a couple minutes later, she is back to normal. Sometimes, in between, she burps or passes gas. I have to believe her fits are the result of gas wreaking havoc on her tiny digestive system. We are now using baby gas drops from Walgreen’s.

These late nights have made her mom and dad walking zombies. I crave sleep like Charlie Sheen craves high-end prostitutes. Does anyone know a good meth dealer? I’ve been working as needed the past two weeks and I have shown up at the office with bloodshot eyes and a strong desire to crawl under my desk for a George Costanza-like nap.

We’ve heard the quality advice: sleep when she sleeps. Easier said than done. There are a lot of things that need to be done around here. For example, this damn blog. I was up until 3 a.m. last night and then had to give a talk to foster parents this morning. I am so tired right now I can barely find the energy to post about how tired I am.

My poor wife has it worse than me. Even though I wake up for the breastfeeding, she actually does it. I can help position the pillows and keep Sydney awake, but honestly, I find myself falling back to sleep during some of those late-night feedings. Brooke must endure, although even she will admit to dozing off in the middle sometimes.

But nothing was as bad as what I witnessed last night. We finally got Sydney down at about 3 a.m. and I fell into a pretty deep sleep. But something stirred me at 4:30 a.m. I woke to find my wife sitting straight up next to me, her breast in her hand, ready for feeding time. She was awake, but not moving.

I looked in Sydney’s direction and noticed she was sitting in her perch as quiet as can be, still sleeping. Befuddled, I said, “Honey, what are you doing?” She looked at me, looked down at herself then looked over at a sleeping Sydney. She sighed, dropped her boob and sunk down into the bed for more shuteye. Never said a word.

I remained befuddled. I wanted to know what the hell was going on, but, to be honest, I was just too tired to investigate. I rolled over and closed my eyes.