Tuesday, October 23, 2012

A Series of Infuriating Cat Naps

Sweet Jesus, please let the little monster go back to sleep.

This is what I think on a nightly basis as my precious little son attempts to break the glass out of his bedroom window, armed with little more than over-developed lungs and as much ambition as God could pack into 19 lbs of teething nocturnal psychopath.

I'm told this phase will improve dramatically after Gabe's teeth come in.  That would provide a degree of solace if the relentless aggression in his middle-of-the-night outbursts didn't have me absolutely convinced we have a future biter on our hands.

Try me, Old Man!

I shall soften this strange man who yells at sporting events on television, as though his cheers affect the outcome, by destroying his equilibrium with sustained inner ear damage and constant fatigue.  Then I feast!

This little narrative speaks to the sleep deprivation I am dealing with.  In my mind, Gabe is a cuter Stewie Griffin with a more animalistic approach to confrontation.  And in my mind, I respect him for it.

If it didn't piss me off to no end, I'd actually be extremely impressed by the way he is able to time these seemingly random outbursts.  I say 'seemingly' because it has become extremely difficult to believe it is a coincidence that he lets out his blood curdling screams exactly 22 minutes after I achieve REM sleep, regardless of what time I go to bed.

If I make it an early night and turn in at 10:00 p.m., Gabe is tuning up the band at 10:22 p.m.  If I stay up to finish work and go to bed at 1:30 a.m., he wakes up hungry at 1:52 a.m.  And after watching a Rocky marathon the assholes at Spike TV had the audacity to air on a week night, when I quietly crawl into bed at 4:25 a.m. in search of a couple hours before my alarm goes off, my human alarm and his poopy diaper sound at - you guessed it - 4:47 a.m.!

More remarkable than the soul-crushing time of his cries are the psychic abilities they have bestowed upon us.  Early on, when Gabe would throw a fit in the middle of the night, Summer and I learned to negotiate baby duties using as few words as possible.

"C'mon, Baby," she would say, meaning, "It's your turn."
"Rah-duh-wa-uh," I would reply, meaning, "No thank you."

These exchanges have gone to a whole new level in recent weeks.  We no longer give short coded responses.  We hash it out entirely through telepathy.

When I returned to bed after getting up to handle an exceptionally harsh fit the other night, Summer touched my arm and told me, without actually saying it, "Thanks, Baby."

I rolled over and pulled the covers to my face.  "Go to hell," my exhausted aura replied.

The exact same exchange was shared the next night, but the roles were reversed in the interest of fairness and sanity.

That's called a healthy marriage.  If you want to learn more, shoot me a telepathic message in 22 minutes.

Good night!

No comments:

Post a Comment