Sleepus interruptus

There is so much you give up to be a parent, not the least of which is sleep. New parents talk about their loss of sleep like a badge of honor, a rite of passage in the trenches of noctural warfare: "I didn't sleep for four years," one mom told me, shortly after I had Tess. "We didn't sleep for two years after our twins were born and we tried everything," another father confessed.

Even when you're pregnant, that's the big joke: "Get all the sleep you can now!" Or you get this advice: "Sleep when the baby sleeps." You don't have to be a sleep expert to know that you can't stockpile sleep. It's something you need regularly for optimal brain functioning and avoiding daily crying jags. And sleeping when the baby sleeps is not very helpful advice. I know few mothers who can resist spending those precious moments of silence checking their email, taking a shower or picking up all the burp cloths strewn across the house. Even when I'm exhausted, I find it difficult to sleep on demand.

The best sanity-saving advice I've gotten, particularly when I was pregnant with my second child, was to keep Owen in daycare while I was on maternity leave and to get the help I needed. That way I wasn't sleep deprived and dealing with the demands of a newborn and a 2 year old all day (guess which child was harder?) And if I did feel inclined to nap, it was much easier to do so with my mom or aunt around. Even better if they helped fold laundry, wash dishes, pick up Lego pieces and pitch in with other repetitive household chores that makes being at home with a baby such a drag.

With Tess, we also hired a night nanny, a somewhat expensive undertaking ($20/hr) but probably the best form of self care and maintaining family equilibrium that money can buy. Our night nanny, Brenda, came three nights a week, from 10 pm to 6 am, to take care of Tess so Dave and I could sleep. It gave us something to look forward to on our baby duty nights ("At least I'll be able to sleep tomorrow night...") Plus Brenda started her shift with a baby massage, which was extra TLC for Tess.

A rare co-nap

But like the best laid plans, Owen chose this time to learn how to climb out of his crib. One night when Dave was sitting on the couch watching TV and eating dinner, he looked over to find Owen standing there next to him in his footed pajamas, a wide, self satisfied grin across his face. Out came the screwdrivers and instructions for how to convert his crib to a toddler bed, followed by nights of being awakened by the thud and cry of Owen falling out of bed.

I searched everywhere online for a guard that would work with his converted Ikea crib, only to find that it had been discontinued and parent chat boards warned that other types of guards wouldn't work because our type of crib didn't have a box spring to anchor it, or the right kind of platform slats. I'm mean seriously, people, what do we need to do to get some sleep?

Even after Dave came up with a solution (putting his mattress on the floor), Owen continued to embrace his newfound mobility by getting up two, three, even four times a night. It got to the point where I would feel anxious going to bed, even when Brenda was there, because I knew I'd be awakened by Owen rattling the old metal doorknob to break into our room.

That's when you're confronted with a major parental dilemma: Take the path of least resistence and let him climb into bed with you? Be strong and get up and take him back to his room, even if it takes 15 times before he stays there? Or hold the door handle to his room, feeling him trying to twist the knob while crying, "Mama! Mama!" until he exhausts himself and falls asleep on his bedroom floor?

After a year and a half of being a rock star sleeper, going to bed at 7 pm not to be heard from again until 6:30 am, Owen became a creature of the night. And me, a rock star sleeper myself before I had children, found myself unable to go back to sleep after these visits from the night intruder. I'd finally doze off around 5 am only to be awoken to Owen at my bedside pulling on my arm at 6 am."Juice, Mama! Juice!" he'd demand until I'd get up and follow him into the kitchen, aching with every molecule in my body to go back to bed. This can't be my life.

A few weeks ago I went to Seattle for a business conference and during breakfast, it came up in conversation that I'd just had a baby. "Was this your first night away from her?" one of the young associates at my table asked. I had to think about it for a few moments, mentally running through the past three months like a flip book. "Yes, I guess it was," I said.

"I remember when I went on a weekend trip with my best friend when her daughter was six months old," the associate said. "It was her first time away from her and she cried she missed her so much."

I took a gulp of orange juice.

"I think it's different with your second child," I said, feeling a surge of motherhood guilt rising in my chest. I hadn't missed Tess or Owen at all the previous night. All I could think about was having a king-size bed to myself, sliding under the crisp white sheets and getting more than four consecutive hours of deep, delicious sleep.

"Oh, I'm sure it is!" the associate said.

That's parenthood for you. Or for me, at least. Doing the best I can to take each stage as it comes. Knowing it will pass and be replaced by a new one. Disregarding advice that isn't realistic or helpful. And trying not to feel guilty when people ask questions that imply things like, "Don't you love your baby more than sleep?"