Night Sweats

I took a beating again last night. It wasn't as bad as some nights, but then, I've picked up a few self-defense tricks. My wife tried to protect me but there's only so much she can do. The attack, as usual, was cowardly and sneaky, catching me unaware, though by now I should be prepared for it. The assailant - the perp - was the same one as always, and showed the same lack of remorse. Don't tell me to call the cops - you aren't in my slippers; you don't know. Besides, it doesn't matter how bad the assaults are, the DA isn't going to prosecute a one year old little girl.

Our daughter sleeps between us, or more accurately, she thrashes, kicks and claws between us. It's been going on for a couple of months now. We are in that transition phase; from our bed, to her... anything but our bed. Sadly, the transition has become mired, so that what began as a happy pair of parents and their peaceful infant daughter has become two exhausted adults and a vicious nocturnal beast.

The boy slept in our bed until he was fourteen months old. Our pediatrician, an otherwise kind, caring, perfectly sympathetic, health care provider for our children, had laid down the law at his one year appointment; "Get him out of your bed." Her adamance was, I suppose, based on years of experience and amplified by a handout she gave us. That reading material provided instructions and justifications for dropping your transitioning infant into a crib and ignoring their pathetic, loud, unceasing cries for a return to your bed. It was written by a doctor frequently referred to as "the Sleep Nazi". It was horrifying. We could not imagine doing that to our beloved little boy. So we tried all the other methods; putting him down in the crib and returning to comfort him every two minutes or so, confirming our presence and reassurring him; rocking and singing him to sleep and quietly putting him down once certain he was out of it; sleeping in the same room as his crib to maintain a sense of continuity and, once again, reassurance. Those methods, as sane and gentle as they seemed, all failed over the course of two months. He would not be moved.

Finally, out of desperation, I returned to the Sleep Nazi. Feeling as evil as any parent ever has, I dumped the boy into his crib, kissed him good night and hauled my guilty ass out of his room as the wailing began. The wailing continued... for an hour and a half... and I ignored it. As the screaming went on and on, I sat in my living room running my hands over my head in imitation of Brando in Apocalypse Now, "The horror. The horror." I called my wife at work and told her what I'd done. Supportive as she was, she was glad not to have been the one. The next night I did it again, with the same results. And the next night. And the one after that. At the end of the first week, the wailing had been trimmed to forty-five minutes. At the end of two weeks it was down to twenty. At the end of a month he was going to sleep after only a few minutes of protest. The method had worked with only a few scars on our respective psyche. Now, at nearly three, he has his bedtime routine, happily saying his good nights and offering kisses before nodding off with greater ease than I, all courtesy of the Mengele of REM. It all worked out - no real fuss, no real muss - and, oh yeah, I never wanted to do that again.

And yet, here we are. Resentment for lost sleep, the need for her to move toward independence, and an impending one year appointment with the pediatrician where we can expect the same, "Get her out of your bed," are all forcing the issue. This time, however, things are a bit more complicated. We have a two bedroom home. A planned bedroom addition has been put on hold thanks to a plummeting real estate market, so the kids will be sharing. That isn't so bad. My little brother and I shared for many years, but I don't remember him screaming, at least not screaming to the degree that my little girl can. She's got herself a set of lungs. My son will suffer; suffer the earsplitting wails of his tortured sister; suffer the bitterness of sleep deprivation; suffer the same Brandoesque moments as I, but much closer to the action. Thus, we are procrastinating, putting off the inevitable in the hopes of a miracle.

It's coming, however. My kidneys can't take the kicks and those early morning rabbit punches are making me stupid. It will be an assault on the senses but that can't be any worse than the ones I have been suffering nightly. Of course, it will all work out in the end. Most parental worries are overblown and kids are more resilient than we imagine. The worst of it will, in all likelihood, be over in a month, but how I hate the thought of that month, and the evil I will do. Get ready girl, cause I'm hanging that horrible sign on the door; the one that says, The Sleep Nazi is in.