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 …

Folding a Onesie

I've been at my new job for almost nine months now. (The pay isn't great, but my colleagues are pretty awesome.) And as I've learned this "Dad" gig, I think I've done pretty well. I can identify different types of wailing, act mature during a smelly diaper change, and sit on a rocking chair with the best of them. I even sing sometimes.

But I am awful, just awful, at folding onesies.

The thing is, I never used to do the laundry. During "the great chore dividing conversation" after we got married, Bridget gladly took the reins on cleaning and folding our clothes. She was faster than me, had better fine motor skills, and actually found the task relaxing. I, on the other hand, took the more traditional options like taking out the trash, emptying the dishwasher, and cleaning up after Oscar.

Then Annabelle was born and I started doing some of Bridget's chores, including the hated laundry. (I quickly learned that there's absolutely no comeback to "Okay, you grow boobs and feed the baby next time." Whenever that trump card comes out, I put my head down and reach for the detergent.)

To be honest, I don't mind most of the laundry process. I love productivity, so the idea of completing a task appeals to me. I like separating the whites from the darks, lugging the IKEA bag down the stairs to the washer, and smelling the fluffy clothes when they come out of the dryer.

But then I realize it's time to fold -- and I cringe.

I start with boxer shorts and towels because they are the easiest. Then I move on to pants, which I can handle. But then things start deteriorating pretty quickly. Shirts and blouses never come out quite right. Socks never match. And then, for the love of God, it's time for the onesies.

Here, in alphabetical order, is everything in the world that's more difficult than folding onesies: Nothing. And here, in alphabetical order, is everything in the world that's easier than folding onesies: Everything, including applied physics and learning Mandarin Chinese.

Just look at the picture at the top of the post. What the hell is that? Why are the arms wrapped around the back? Why does the bottom look like a pair of pants? What am I supposed to do with the snaps? Now, you might think, Mike, you probably just folded a bad one for the sake of this blog. Wrong. I tried. Really hard. In fact, as I try to fold these absurdly small pieces of fabric, one of college basketball coaching legend John Wooden's famous quotes always rings in my head: If you don't have time to do it right, when will you have time to do it over? Now, I guess, John. Now I'll have to do it over!

Phew. Deep breaths. Count to 10.

I'll most certainly keep trying to improve, but in the meantime, please do me a favor: If you see Annabelle and she's wearing a onesie with odd wrinkles or uneven sleeves, don't say anything. Just know that it's not her fault.

What We Learned at Birthing Class

Have you ever seen a really, really graphic childbirth as you're wiping sleep from your eyes at 9:15 on a Sunday morning? We're talking full frontal, close-up, can't-eat-for-four-hours graphic. No?

We have. Welcome to birthing class. And welcome, yet again, to parenthood.

We spent the Sunday of our Memorial Day Weekend learning about how to have a baby. Instead of doing weekly classes for a month, we opted to jam it all into one eight-hour marathon session -- a decision I highly recommend. Aside from being the only of the seven couples to bring our own pillows (thanks, Internet, for making us look stupid), we actually had a great time. Yes, it may be partially because we're both kind of nerds and we love to learn new things, but mostly it was because it was super helpful.

What specifically did we learn? Here are a some things that stood out:

Well, as mentioned above, we learned that childbirth is really, really graphic. Now, we knew this, of course, but I suppose I just wasn't sure how graphic we were talking. I will now happily take the advice of a couple friends who are already dads to, "Stay at the top of the bed. Whatever you do, stay at the top of bed." Done and done.

Of the seven couples, we learned that only four knew the gender. For some reason, I expected that to be much higher. Maybe six couples. Maybe even all of them. But perhaps it's not quite as obvious of a decision.

I learned it's pretty cool to be called "one of the dads."

We learned that a sense of community is incredibly important. We read a lot. We talk to friends who already have kids. We talk to our mothers. But we don't know many people who are going through the same exact thing we are going through at the same exact time. It made us feel so much better to hear other people ask questions about epidurals, breathing, and poop.

Even before we get to the big event, we learned that we need to start doing yoga and meditating. We're using a midwife and we're going to try to keep things natural, so staying calm and relaxed are of utmost importance. Speaking of relaxation, we learned that Lamaze is crap. It's a method of breathing that doesn't encourage release or downward motion, which are both fairly important when you're trying to squeeze eight pounds out of, well, you know what.

We learned that most babies are born at 41 weeks and that most due dates are a week early. (Bridget may have known this, but a lot of this stuff was completely new to me.)

We learned that the water breaks early in only about 10-11% of births. (Bonus: Also, it's waters break (with an "s"), which was new to me.) I thought this was like 98%. Seriously, every movie I've seen for the last 20 years that involves childbirth involves some new dad slipping on his wife's water. Stupid Hollywood and its dramatic lies.

We learned that labor usually starts at home -- and lasts for quite a while. Maybe it's just me, but I had this image of rushing home from work, grabbing the packed bag, and driving on two wheels down side streets to get to the hospital. Not so much. It's apparently far, far less dramatic and involves hours of pre-labor and early labor. (Oscar, I imagine, will be quite helpful during this time. <-- Sarcastic.)

We learned a whole lot more, too -- including how to breathe, how to properly massage a woman in labor, and the importance of being a positive Dad. I really can't imagine a more productive use of eight hours (especially on a lousy day) as you're preparing to have a bundle of joy.

And I suppose I should get used to the graphic images. I learned they are part of parenthood.