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Oh, hey. It’s been a while since I complained about Owen’s sleep, huh? I bet you missed it. Well you’re in luck. Here’s another installment of My Child Is Trying to Kill Me With Sleep Deprivation. Part 475.

Actually, I don’t know. There isn’t THAT much to say about it, other than he occasionally wakes up just briefly enough at night that I need to go in there and tuck him back in. That’s fine, it really is, but it’s usually an hour or so before or after Ryan wakes to eat, so I’m not falling back asleep long enough on either end for my night to be restorative.

Wait, scratch that. It would be restorative if he wasn’t also waking up FOR THE DAY between 5 and 5:30. Some days — the good days — it’s six. Six I can sort-of handle, but five? No. No I can not. I blame it on him being potty trained. He wakes up, has to go, and that’s the end of sleeping. I can’t tell you how many mornings I’ve spent semi-conscious on the couch while he is plugged in to Sesame Street with his milk and cereal. Usually around 7 he will decide that’s enough rest for me and start poking me in the face or something. The only saving grace is that Ryan usually sleeps until at least then, sometimes almost 8, so I don’t have to worry about him. The days he gets up early, though, I pretty much want to die.

I know from past experience that this is just another stage and that if all else fails, in another few months or so he will be able to go to the bathroom completely on his own with no help needed from me. Maybe by then he can even grab himself some cereal, let the dog out and make Mama some coffee. Ok, I’m reaching here. A little.

But all the knowledge in the world is not making this chunk of time any easier. And so, I get myself a Dark Chocolate Mocha Latte from Dunkin Donuts (otherwise known as a big ol’ cup of super fuel that tastes nothing like coffee {which is probably why I like it}) and inadvertently over-caffeinate myself because in my fog, I usually forget to eat breakfast. I only realize it a few hours later when my buzz turns into WARNING, WARNING, ALL SYSTEMS CRASHING!!!!, which is usually right when both kids are ready for a nap and irritable.

I wish for Owen a lifetime of love, happiness, adventure and prosperity. I also wish for him a child who doesn’t sleep well because PAYBACK IS A BITCH, kiddo.

Did this make any sense? I wrote it with my eyes closed.

After I told you about the few hurdles we had transitioning Owen to his new bed, night three came along and he just…went to bed. And slept. He even started requesting to go to bed and when we finished reading his books, he’d flip right over and go to sleep. Obviously we are parents of the year and deserved a trophy for the amazing big boy bed conversion we pulled off.

Life has a way of smacking you in the face when you start to get cocky, I think.

Two nights ago he went to bed. A few minutes later he opened the door and came running down the hall, crying, to find me. I brought him back, tucked him in, told him I loved him and shut the door. Wash, rinse, repeat. Five times. After the last time he whimpered in there for a few minutes, but then was quiet. I figured it was an off night and we would go back to normal the next day.

Last night was worse. I didn’t walk him back five times last night. I walked him back EIGHTEEN TIMES. No, I’m not exaggerating. I started keeping track after that door would open every few minutes and the pitter patter of little feet would head towards me. And every time — just like alllll the books and websites and other parents say — I would walk him back calmly and quietly (seriously, all I had to do was point towards his room and he’d run back in sniffling), tuck him in, saying nothing more than “stay in your bed, goodnight, I love you”, and close the door.

EIGHTEEN TIMES.

It’s the most workout I’ve had in weeks.

It wasn’t until the end of the 17th round that I figured out that he didn’t want the door shut, so I left it open and he stayed in bed. I thought he was asleep after about 20 minutes, until I heard him come out again. Only this time he wasn’t crying, he was groggy and rubbing his eyes and looked confused (“Is the game over? Are we done playing? This is a game, right?”) so I tucked him in with a kiss one more time. It took a full hour, but he was out for the night. I shut the door a little while later.

And all was quiet, until he came busting into our room at 5:30 this morning and OH MY GOD, KID. I wish I had my phone next to the bed so you could see what I opened my eyes to. Seven or eight trucks lined up on the edge of my bed, a giant Newfoundland head, nose jabbed at me whining to go out and a tiny person with blond hair dancing around saying, “Mama?! Hiiiii, Mama!!!”

 

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Not chai; espresso.

I had resisted putting a gate in Owen’s bedroom door because I didn’t want him to feel locked in there, but if this keeps up I might reconsider. I know it can take awhile when you put them in a bed, but I was SO convinced we lucked out and he just got it.

Smug, be gone with you.

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