Sleeping Beauty

For the last year (more or less), Woodstock has been a fabulous sleeper. (The first 8 weeks of her life would not qualify for "fabulous sleeperhood" - she was difficult to get to sleep and didn't stay asleep long - but I suppose that is normal).

She is also generally easy to get to bed - a bit too attached to her "been-tee" (binkie), but since she only gets it at church and naptime/bedtime, I'm willing to look the other way for the moment.

Over the past several weeks, however, she has been waking up and shrieking at the top of her lungs. Nightmare-inducing shrieks. Shrieks that make one's heart stop beating as it rouses one from a dead sleep over the baby monitor (her room is too far away to hear her otherwise). Especially when one accidentally leaves the monitor's volume up too high.

For the record, I am not a nice person to rouse from a deep sleep. It happens so rarely (the deep sleep, not the rousing), that I am guilty of being slightly grumpy if roused before I feel is absolutely necessary. Fortunately, the walk to Woodstock's room is long and usually filled with obstacles she has scattered throughout the hall, so I have plenty of time to stub my toe and "adjust my attitude" prior to poking my head in to see what on earth is warranting such shrieking.

A couple of weeks ago, I was EXHAUSTED when this happened. More exhausted than usual. I had stayed up way too late watching election coverage that shouldn't have kept me up late. It was hardly a nail-biter and the whole thing kicked off two hours earlier than I'm used to, having relocated to a new time zone. It was all said and done before my regular bedtime. Nevertheless, I stayed up to0 late.

As a result, the first time the shrieking began, I broke my own iron-clad parenting rule. I picked Woodstock up, cuddled her to my chest, went back to bed, waited for her to fall asleep and then deposited her back into her bed. The second time, I picked Woodstock up, cuddled her to my chest, went back to bed, rearranged the pillows and bedding, plopped her in the middle, turned over and went to sleep. Every once in awhile I'd wake up and right her so her head was at the top and her feet were no longer in my back. I was too tired to care what awful habits I might be instilling by fetching her and letting her sleep with us.

Most of the time, she shrieks for awhile then falls asleep, sometimes mumbling the guilt-inducing phrase, "nononono," like she's softly scolding herself for waking the entire household.

Several nights later, however, all I could think was "I've created a monster!" The shrieking began, right on cue, at 4 a.m. Himself rolled over and mumbled "She must have thrown her binky overboard," as he went back to sleep. Indeed she had. I handed her her binky and tried to creep out.

Woodstock would have nothing of it. The shrieking got louder. I picked her up, cuddled her to my chest, rocked her until she was almost asleep and then deposited her back into bed. I had taken 2 steps when the shrieking began anew.

"Oh no," I muttered. "You are not coming to bed with me." Too tired to do much of anything, I sat on the floor and reached my arm through the crib slats to stroke Woodstock's foot. Then I started to sing "I am a Child of God" - the song that will almost instantly calm her. (I'm sure Himself enjoyed the raspy, half-dazed serenade over the baby monitor). She sat there, defiant, daring me to either stop singing or stop stroking her foot or both.

I started falling asleep, my arm caught to my elbow in Woodstock's crib, the song verses all mixed up. I stopped singing and stroked her foot. 15 minutes into the ordeal Woodstock keeled over with a thud - she had fallen asleep sitting up. I was so relieved I didn't even bother to move "Meow" her stuffed leopard, out from under her. I crawled to the door and padded back to bed.

Last night, the same thing happened. I sat on her floor in the dark, stroking her head through the slats in the crib. She stared at me, as if to say, "it doesn't matter what you do, I am not going back to sleep." I sang jumbled, raspy verses again, picturing Himself with his head shoved under his pillow, willing her to fall asleep quickly so I'd stop the serenade.

After tossing and turning and making a complete 360-degree rotation in her crib, Woodstock finally settled down on her stomach, her face turned toward the wall. Her breathing evened. I brought my singing down to a whisper and stroked her hair lightly. Suddenly, her arm thrust out - she stretched as far as it would go, grasped "Meow" and pulled him up next to her, her face buried in his fur as she made a kissing noise in the vicinity of his nose. She flopped her arm over him, turned her head toward me, closed her eyes and sighed a little.

It's hard to remember why my sleep is so necessary when Sleeping Beauty finally throws herself toward dreamland without prelude - slipping abruptly and blissfully into the warm, dark silence, wrapped in love by her faithful furry feline. It's hard not to just stay and watch.