Anything For Sleep
I wrote the following little essay when Eli was only 5 months old and I submitted it to Parent: Wise Austin, a small local parenting magazine. That was about 2 years ago so I considered it rejected. Out of the blue, I heard from them this week and they asked if they could publish it in their March 2006 issue in their humor column, "My Life as a Parent." AND... they're paying me $50! WooHoo!
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Anything For Sleep
The mind works in a completely different way at 2 a.m. What seems ridiculous during daylight hours is perfectly acceptable when you’ve not slept more than a few hours at a stretch for nearly a year.
I had been up with my son, Elias, for more than an hour. He wanted anything but sleep. Finally, and against great protest, I put him in his crib, intent on getting us both some sleep. The front panel of his hand-me-down crib was lowered, leaving a good-sized opening. I leaned in, rested my head beside his, and tried soothing him while he clung to me, screaming. Desperate to relax my exhausted body, I raised one leg up to the foot of his mattress.
“This is ridiculous,” I thought. “I’m practically in here with him.”
Hmmmm. No, I couldn’t. Or could I?
I could and did. I just leaned up, over, and rolled into my little boy’s world. It was easy, really. (God bless yoga.) There I was in the crib, looking up at his mobile, marveling at the coziness, wondering why in the world he didn’t love it. I thought about the many times I have lamented my small stature. I have flipped through countless Victoria’s Secret catalogues, coveting those long legs. In that moment, I was completely vindicated.
Of course, I knew it wasn’t a good idea. I could see the headlines: “Baby in stable condition after freak crib accident” or “Local man divorces wife upon discovery of bizarre crib fetish.” No, this couldn’t be good. But, over the din of my worry, I heard it: thunderous silence. Eli had stopped bawling and was simply staring at me, happy to have me in his space.
“Sweetie?” My husband called from our room but I did not answer. I knew immediately what I would do. Cradling Eli’s bottom in my hands, I lifted him up and suspended him in the air just as my unsuspecting spouse entered the room. I had a front row seat, staring up into his bewildered face as he stood crib-side. Not yet awake, he found himself literally face to face with our airborne child. My husband, a slave to logic—certainly not one to panic—was concerned. He called for me again.
“Hey—Sweetie?” He faced the hall, seeking my shape in the doorway, with one eye pinned on the hovering Eli. My husband’s eyes were still adjusting to the dark. Had he just looked down, he would have seen me lying there beneath him.
“Tamara!” he yelled this time, at fear’s edge. That’s all I could take. I burst into laughter.
“Where are you?” he asked, looking around. He held Eli tight, as if to stop him from floating right up to the ceiling.
“Right here,” I cackled.
“Here? Where?”
“I’m in the crib.” My laugh was bold and selfish, morbid, wonderful.
“In the crib?” he said, finally looking down. Then my husband reminded me that we are perfect for each other. He did not scold or criticize me. He just laughed.
“I thought he was levitating,” he shook his head. “I’m going to bed.”
I lowered Elias to my side, pleased with myself. He scooted close and shut his eyes, stroking the neckline of my nightgown as if putting himself to sleep was as natural as breathing. Finally, he slept.
I thought about the precedent I had set, still tickled. But it was done. And then it occurred to me: How was I going to get out without breaking my neck or—more importantly—without waking Elias? But that’s another story.
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Anything For Sleep
The mind works in a completely different way at 2 a.m. What seems ridiculous during daylight hours is perfectly acceptable when you’ve not slept more than a few hours at a stretch for nearly a year.
I had been up with my son, Elias, for more than an hour. He wanted anything but sleep. Finally, and against great protest, I put him in his crib, intent on getting us both some sleep. The front panel of his hand-me-down crib was lowered, leaving a good-sized opening. I leaned in, rested my head beside his, and tried soothing him while he clung to me, screaming. Desperate to relax my exhausted body, I raised one leg up to the foot of his mattress.
“This is ridiculous,” I thought. “I’m practically in here with him.”
Hmmmm. No, I couldn’t. Or could I?
I could and did. I just leaned up, over, and rolled into my little boy’s world. It was easy, really. (God bless yoga.) There I was in the crib, looking up at his mobile, marveling at the coziness, wondering why in the world he didn’t love it. I thought about the many times I have lamented my small stature. I have flipped through countless Victoria’s Secret catalogues, coveting those long legs. In that moment, I was completely vindicated.
Of course, I knew it wasn’t a good idea. I could see the headlines: “Baby in stable condition after freak crib accident” or “Local man divorces wife upon discovery of bizarre crib fetish.” No, this couldn’t be good. But, over the din of my worry, I heard it: thunderous silence. Eli had stopped bawling and was simply staring at me, happy to have me in his space.
“Sweetie?” My husband called from our room but I did not answer. I knew immediately what I would do. Cradling Eli’s bottom in my hands, I lifted him up and suspended him in the air just as my unsuspecting spouse entered the room. I had a front row seat, staring up into his bewildered face as he stood crib-side. Not yet awake, he found himself literally face to face with our airborne child. My husband, a slave to logic—certainly not one to panic—was concerned. He called for me again.
“Hey—Sweetie?” He faced the hall, seeking my shape in the doorway, with one eye pinned on the hovering Eli. My husband’s eyes were still adjusting to the dark. Had he just looked down, he would have seen me lying there beneath him.
“Tamara!” he yelled this time, at fear’s edge. That’s all I could take. I burst into laughter.
“Where are you?” he asked, looking around. He held Eli tight, as if to stop him from floating right up to the ceiling.
“Right here,” I cackled.
“Here? Where?”
“I’m in the crib.” My laugh was bold and selfish, morbid, wonderful.
“In the crib?” he said, finally looking down. Then my husband reminded me that we are perfect for each other. He did not scold or criticize me. He just laughed.
“I thought he was levitating,” he shook his head. “I’m going to bed.”
I lowered Elias to my side, pleased with myself. He scooted close and shut his eyes, stroking the neckline of my nightgown as if putting himself to sleep was as natural as breathing. Finally, he slept.
I thought about the precedent I had set, still tickled. But it was done. And then it occurred to me: How was I going to get out without breaking my neck or—more importantly—without waking Elias? But that’s another story.
Comments
I still can't get past the fact that you could fit in the crib.
The freaking out of J.M., now that's just classic Tam silliness. Gotta love that!