Sweet Slumber
by Nicole Caccavo Kear |
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One mom describes her brief love affair
with the Sandman.
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It was Christmas Eve, and the eve of my son's
one-month birthday. After an hour-long "Frosty
the Snowman" singing marathon, I'd finally
lured Giovanni to sleep. I assumed my position
in bed, an arm's reach from the rocking bassinet, which
came to a standstill. My husband, David, tiptoed over, slid
under the blanket, and turned his back to me.
"Honey," I asked plaintively, "why don't you snuggle with me
anymore?" I paused for dramatic effect. "Is the magic gone?"
With a trembling hand, he pointed to the bassinet's mobile.
"It's the bears," he whispered. "I see the bears shaking just
before the baby starts to cry." I shot the bears a sideways
glance and promptly rolled toward the window, too.
By his second day of life, Giovanni had decided sleep was
for the weak and launched his Campaign of Unending
Wakefulness. There was no such thing as day or night anymore.
The only way I could tell 4 a.m. from 4 p.m. was the
difference in television programming.
So I became a sleep junkie. I wanted to do it all the time.
When someone suggested another activity - a heartfelt talk,
dinner, sex - I'd react with shocked chagrin. Nothing
could trump shuteye. It was like a passionate affair
between me and sleep that some third party was
always barging in on just when things got good.
Eventually, I could operate perfectly well with my
two-hour intervals of sleep - that is, as long as my
newborn served as the only arbiter of social skill.
When I interfaced with adults, the loss of social function
became glaring. On New Year's Eve, I attempted
the double challenge of attending a dinner party and
staying up until midnight. Ironic jibes and double entendres
flew past me as I watched the clock. By 10
p.m., I knew the ball would have to drop without
me. "Happy Yew Near," I said as I made my exit.
And then, just as I accepted my fate as a haggard,
social misfit, a mysterious thing occurred. One night
in early spring, I collapsed in my usual heap and
woke to a brave new world. It was light outside.
"What the hell is going on?" I muttered to David.
"It's morn-ing," he replied, enunciating the word
as if it was a foreign phrase I had never encountered.
"Morn-ing?" I repeated. "You mean - ?"
"Yes," he smiled, "the baby slept through the
night." I turned toward the bassinet. The bears
were mercifully, marvelously still. I peered over the
side and saw my snoozing baby, sucking in air
through his bow-shaped mouth, as if sleeping seven
hours in a row was no big deal. The gratitude
that flooded me was almost too much. I could barely
resist kissing his opalescent little brow. But I did.
And was back asleep within seconds. After all, you
can't get too much of a good thing.
Nicole Caccavo Kear is a writer and mom in New York
City who cherishes the thought of eight hours of sleep.
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