Trouble in Sleep City

I’m surprised these words on this page.

I do my best to set aside some time to write a blog post each week. It’s been a great way to keep track of Belle’s first 18 months. I’m certain Bridget and I will read this blog fondly in the future – and I hope Belle will, too. Plus, I love to write, so this blog has been something of a win-win.
But this week … man. Man, oh man.

Now, nothing dramatic happened. Everyone’s (mostly) healthy, work was fine, and the weather is finally getting better. But this week, in the spirit of Sesame Street, was brought to us by something called the 18-month sleep regression.

Perhaps you’ve never heard of such a thing. I certainly hadn’t until very recently. But it’s not too difficult to understand if you break it down. The first part, “18-month,” refers to the age of our adorable little nugget at the top of the page. She’ll be 19 months next week. (Aside: When do I stop counting the months? Can I just say she’s 1? I’m starting to feel pretentious.) The second part, “sleep regression,” refers to forgetting how to sleep. And, well, it’s awful.

For the most part, Annabelle has been a pretty good sleeper. After six weeks of life, she was getting about 4-5 hours of solid sleep a night. And, with a few bumps in the road, it’s been fairly smooth sailing since then. I know that’s not the case with all babies. I’ve talked to Moms and Dads who have struggled with sleep issues from the moment their baby arrives:
“We woke up 9-10 times every night for the first year.” 
“She’s 10-months-old and she hasn’t slept through the night yet.” 
“I honestly didn’t get more than four hours of sleep at a time for two years.”

To those parents, I say, “You are far tougher than I am.” Of course, it’s unlikely that those parents are still reading at this point. I imagine they closed the browser while muttering curse words about me after the “Annabelle has been a pretty good sleeper” line.

Even so, this week has been absolutely brutal. What used to be a few quick books and a kiss on the forehead has become 90-120 minutes of “Please, please go to bed.” What used to be a 6 AM wake-up cry has become 11:30, 1:30, and 3 AM wake-up cries. Wednesday night/Thursday morning was the worst, when Annabelle woke up at 1:45 and kept us up the rest of the night.

I realize it’s just one week, but when you wake up to face the day after only a couple hours of sleep, it doesn’t matter if the night before was restful or brutal. (At least it doesn’t matter for me.) It’s almost impossible to perform at your normal level. You're irritable. You can't physically smile. You start to question the cuteness of puppies. You secretly hope we get another blizzard ...

And the worst part of the week? We’re not sure when this is going to end. The 18-month sleep regression, unlike others, involves some personality. So in addition to growing, teething, and developing, Annabelle is exerting her independence and showing how she can be defiant. It makes me shudder to think of the teenage years.

So is there anything positive? Any light at the end of the sleep-deprived tunnel? There are two, actually. One, it’s all part of the parenting deal. This, too, shall pass, as all phases do. We signed up for this and in a weird way, we like it. It’s like earning a badge of honor. And two, on Wednesday night/Thursday morning, when she screamed at the top of her lungs at 1:45, she also yelled something new:
 “Dada!”

And that was pretty neat …

Being Okay with 'Mama'

Annabelle woke up at 2:59 AM on Wednesday morning. There was no real rhyme or reason. She wasn't sick, wasn't cold, wasn't ready to wake up. She just started crying, so I went in to make sure she was okay.

She was standing up with her arms out, a couple small tears started to drip down her cheeks. Groggy, wiping sleep from my eyes, I reached down into her crib to get her.

Me: Hi, baby. Are you okay? 

Annabelle: (Crying.)

Me: What's wrong? Are you feeling okay? Do you want to come into our bed? 

Annabelle, with arms reaching toward our bedroom: Mama. Mama. Mama.

Me: Oh, okay. Cool. 

Hun! She wants you ...

One of the hardest things about being a new Dad is when "Dad" isn't the answer. No matter who you are or where you're from, there's one hope we all share: If you love something, you want that thing to love you back. Now, of course, Annabelle loves me (or at least I hope/assume she does), but it's pretty difficult to get a baby stiff arm when you're coming to the rescue or trying to plant a kiss before bed.

It's not just the middle of the night, either. In the photo above, Bridget and Belle are walking hand-in-hand through the magical streets of Disney World. Cute, isn't it? Where's Dad? Well, in public, for some strange reason, Annabelle refuses to hold my hand. Not in Disney World. Not at the store. Not on the street. Maybe she's embarrassed already?

As an uncertain, first-time Dad, this has been tough for me. Am I doing something wrong? Can I do anything better? Will it ever change? Bridget, being the wonderfully supportive spouse, always answers the same way, "She loves you. She just goes through lots of phases. She'll want you all the time someday."

That kind, thoughtful answer rang in my head at 3:01 AM on Wednesday morning. After my initial disappointment with "Mama," I smiled and realized it was the first time Annabelle called for one of us at night. She's growing up so fast and I'm lucky to be sharing the experience with such a wonderful wife.

Then, at 3:02 AM, as I crawled back into bed with Bridget and, now, Annabelle, I felt a tiny hand on my shoulder. And as my smile faded and I put my attention to falling back asleep, I heard a barely audible whisper:

Dada. 

Missing Luggage: The Five Lows of Flying Without Belle

As I type these words, I’m in the air somewhere over West Virginia. The sky outside the small, rectangular window to my right is blue and white. I just slowly savored a couple packets of complimentary graham crackers (thanks, JetBlue) while listening to my favorite new artist, Vance Joy.

I am, for the most part, pretty relaxed.

Exactly three months ago, I was in the air somewhere over West Virginia. I don’t remember what color the sky was. I have no idea what I ate. I wasn’t wearing noise-cancelling headphones or typing quietly on my laptop. Instead, I was handing out one Gerber puff at a time, trying to occupy Belle with yet another board book, and hoping that the stroller would still somehow be in one piece when we landed in Boston.

Relaxed? Not so much.

One of the many joys (and struggles) of having a little one is flying with a little one. In Annabelle’s first 18 months of life, she’s been on a few journeys that required airplanes. And as any parent will tell you, it’s challenging. Like maybe a 7 or 8 out of 10 on the difficulty scale. Packing is harder. Getting through security is harder. The flight is harder. Then, you have to worry about time zones and sleeping …

But as I sit here without much stress, I’m surprised to find myself genuinely missing some things about flying with Belle. More specifically, I miss five things:

1. People are much nicer when you fly with a baby. Everyone smiles, no one counts your bags, and stewardesses check in on you all the time. The world knows you’re gritting your teeth and counting the minutes until landing. 
2. Early boarding. Airplanes are crowded and never have enough room. The anxiety that comes with standing around a gate with a piece of carry-on luggage that should fit in the overhead compartment is never fun. Is that guy in Group 3? Is he already getting on? Seriously? With a baby, the red carpet of boarding rolls out. 
3. Bridget. No Belle in the air has, so far, meant no Bridget in the air. And I like hanging out with my wife. She’s pretty damn cool. 
4. Belle. This one is kind of obvious. I thought it would get easier as she started to get older, but it’s actually getting worse. Within the first 10 minutes of this morning’s flight, I was pulling out my phone to watch some recent videos of new words, big smiles, and hilarious dining moments. I won’t get a “Dadda!!!!!” hug today and that stinks. 
5. The accomplished feeling when you land. I’ll touch down in a couple hours, slowly collect my carry-on bags, and shuffle out toward the vast, fast-food-filled airport in Dallas. From there, I’ll hop in a cab and head to the hotel. Big deal. With the little one in tow, Bridget and I would share a high-five (and she hates high-fives), let out a couple big sighs, give each other that “We made it” look, and get ready to explore a new place with Belle. 

Now the task of trying to remember these five things the next time I’m handing small bits of food to a screaming toddler before the plane is even in the air? That’s probably a 9 on that difficulty scale. Maybe even 9.5.

What's the value of a baby book?

Hair is the only thing that comes to mind. And maybe teeth, too, but that's a little strange. I mean, who saves teeth?

Otherwise, really, what's the value of a baby book anymore?

My mother, if she's reading this, is rolling her eyes. You don't know what you're talking about, Michael. Baby books are an essential part of childhood. The memories. Oh, the memories! 

Well, Ma, the thing is, books just aren't books anymore. Books are e-books. Books are online courses. Books are images and videos and animations. Physical books are, in a way, and it's hard for me to say this, dead.

And baby books are in that category of physical books.

I've looked through my baby book a few times. It's fun to skim the pages and take an embarrassing trip down memory lane. Mine, probably like yours, is faded, worn, and torn. That isn't because my mother treated it poorly; in fact, she treasured/treasures it. But it's a book and books fall apart. It's filled with images, footprints, and, probably, hair. It's stuffed with memories of foods I liked, illnesses I overcame, and first steps I took. I'm sure there's quite a bit about the potty in there, too. And don't get me wrong -- these are all wonderful things.

But we don't have one for Annabelle. And, frankly, I don't see it happening.

Instead, we have this blog, Annabelle's email account, hundreds of digital photos (many of which you might have seen on Facebook and Instagram), and dozens of videos. Again, I'm channeling my mother: This is all technology! What will you actually hold in your hand? Oh, you're missing out! (She says "Oh" a lot as she leads into emotional sentences. Maybe your mom does, too?)

I don't think we're missing out, though. (And I don't think Annabelle is either.) I think we're being practical and making good use of technological advances. The tattered images of me in a snowsuit are are now sharp, high-def images of Annabelle sitting in her highchair. A story about my first steps is now a 15-second video I can watch every day. A list of my first words is now an audio file on my iPhone.

Sound cold? Sound sterile? To me, it sounds like progress. It sounds like the inevitable march of time. It sounds like better, more vibrant memories.

Besides, what would we do with a bunch of old teeth?