What goes bump in the night?

I think this all started when I took my sweet little infant to the Dr and said, you know, he spits up about half of what he eats, every time he eats. That wonderful Dr. looked me straight in the eye, and said, why don’t you try feeding him half as much, twice as often? In the haze of my new mother bliss, I blindly obeyed that dr without a thought of what the future would hold. I dutifully got up every hour and half though the night to feed my precious angel. Noah slept in his car seat, so that he was sitting upright to help him keep that measly 2 ounces in his belly, belted in, of course, lest he use his great mite and heave himself out of his seat and fall three inches onto the pillows piled around on the floor. This was very confusing to a very tired husband who came to relieve me and sleepily tried to get Noah out of the car seat without unbuckling it.

Noah grew and, of course, stopped returning the unused portion of his meal, but he never did quite get the hang of sleeping for long stretches of time. Good thing Supper Nanny came along allowing me to uncover my child’s super powers of hearing as I tried unsuccessfully to creep out his room where I had been sitting with my back to him for hours while he fell asleep.

The whole cry it out idea started to sound pretty good to me, but I wasn’t ready yet. First I had to deliver my second child. When the nurse came in and scolded me for not waking up Emme who had been asleep for FOUR hours and surly was going to die of starvation—I mean how can an 8 and ½ pound baby who eats about 4 ounces a feeding right from birth possibly be expected to survive FOUR hours without eating—I calmly reached over to the lovely vase of flowers on my bedside and threw it at her.

So, about 24 months after my beautiful boy was born, I decided it was time to cry it out. Turns out, Noah, has asthma. Thank goodness for emergency rooms.

I blame it on Mike. No surprise, right? None of the Ross men sleep well, but that’s another post.

Here is part where you all comment on what terrible parents we are, it’s OK. I’m too tired to read the comments; I haven’t slept through the night in over six years.

Now, we lock our door at night. Noah has tried every trick in the book, pounding on the door, yelling for help, (that one gets Mike every time-but I’m on to him), and even lecturing—Mommy, I’m not very happy with you. Open this door, right now! We lock Emme’s door, too. But sometimes, that little stinker waits until we are all asleep, goes into the laundry room, (that door doesn’t lock) gets a wire hanger, unbends it, unlocks our door, and sneaks like a ninja into our room.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy cuddling up with my night roamer. It’s just that he kicks, a LOT, and flails his arms around. It’s very disorienting to get an elbow to the cheek in the middle of the night.

Once dawn breaks, we open our door. Today, Mike opened our door about 6:00 am. There sat Noah in front of the tv with music videos playing, a bag of chips, and a juice box. Dad, I’ve been up since 1:00, he says.

It’s going to be a long day for his teacher. Good thing he’s so lovable.