Saturday, March 01, 2008

Sleepwalking, part III

La java, three to six a.m. Aren't the bars closed at that hour, even in Paris? Shouldn't le Petit learn that late-night partying is discouraged, at least until he's a bit older, say, over six?

Groan. Yesterday was a very nearly perfect day. Le Petit slept in until 10. My husband had the day off work, so we all lazed around the house until late afternoon, when we drove to Versailles for a walk around the gardens. Le Petit fell asleep in fifteen minutes at bedtime, cuddled up in my arms in his brand new sleeping bag.

I, idiot that I am, ignored my new bedtime and stayed up watching Seinfeld DVDs until almost one o'clock. I then found myself awake in the dark with a million stupid thoughts besieging my brain. Thoughts like "You really should fall asleep now. You'll be exhausted tomorrow," "He'll wake up in five minutes," "This will all be worse when you go back to work," and "Just when do you plan on doing the taxes?"

Then, three to six a.m. was a nursing, pacing, crying marathon. At one point le Petit looked up from the breast and stared at me with his enormous brown eyes and started to coo. I understand baby talk now. He was saying, "Hey, Mom, I don't know what brings you here, but as long as we're in this two-bit dance hall together, let's party!"

Right.

I wish my nighttime parenting skills were better, but I confess I left him to whimper in his crib for awhile while I tried to compose myself, going back in when the crying escalated. He finally, finally nursed down at six, when I slumped off to bed and, judging from the imprint of my pillow on my cheek, didn't move again until 11 o'clock this morning.

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