a (not-so) short report on sleep

Last night, he didn’t fall asleep till 10pm. And it wasn’t for lack of trying on our parts. For TWO HOURS. Sheer. Misery.

Today he napped for an hour from 11-12, in the midst of an otherwise gorgeous day of daddy-and-me while mommy alternately worked and spaced out on her lack of sleep and stress.

They went to the beach, the grocery store, the park. They chased squirrels. Jonah reminded his dad that we need cat food (probably just a coincidence, free association? but useful nonetheless).

They returned at 5pm. Between last night and then, I’d consulted a few friends, plus good old Moxie. I’d decided that we are in fact in the midst of an 18-months sleep regression. Scott and I also started looking up information on gifted children and one notable characteristic that came up on several lists was a lesser need for sleep — without attendant irritability from such. Jonah, for all our struggles with his naps and bedtimes, has never really seemed worse for wear, aside from the bags under his eyes. He generally stays a chipper, happy, guy. Even today, on SUCH minimal sleep, he was delightful.

Scott and I also discussed how these things tend to go, that each time Jonah’s sleep falls apart (regresses — per Moxie) we have a period of time where I freak out, coddle and cuddle, decide he can’t stand to be alone. And eventually, it comes back to a tweaking of the bedtime routine and CIO.

Tonight, when Jonah got home, I asked him about bedtime. I said, “Do you want to go to bed at 7, or 7:30?”

I know that’s ridiculous. Scott looked at me like I was insane. Jonah smiled and said “Sevunnn Thurdy.”

Perhaps it helped simply to set our resolve. To try again. We had a serious accumulated sleep debt on our side. And he’d been running around all day.

The boy and I played in the yard for another hour, and then we fed him dinner. Couldn’t quite manage all of us eating at that time, but we did sit down with him. He refused to be fed, seemed entirely uninterested in eating. I let him have the spoon and he set to work scooping the peas and meatloaf bits out of his bowl and into the cup-bottom depression in his high chair tray.

Fine.

I sat with him and watched. Eventually, he used his spoon to scoop a piece of meatloaf into his mouth. And then from there it was spoon, then hands, and he ate. And I marveled at what being patient, just observing, and not giving up had gained us in that small window.

After dinner, we reminded Jonah of what was happening next. “It’s 6:30. Now you’re going to take a bath, then books, then songs, then bed at 7:30.”

Right, I know. Totally insane. Ridiculous. But it helped us. Helped me to say it out loud.

The evening proceeded according to plan. Not without complaints, but not horribly.

At 7:32 I kissed him good night and left the room.

Commence Screaming.

At 7:45, Scott went in to “reassure.” Jonah demanded potty. After potty, Scott put him back to bed, stayed a bit longer, exited the room. 8:00.

Commence Screaming.

I paused at the door. Let him cry? Go back in?

I go in. Give him a hug, lay him down. I say goodnight to all his animals while laying my arm across his chest to calm him. He says good night to my arm. He asks for HAND. He suggests I sit down in the chair. No. I’m standing next to the crib, not touching him. I talk to him about how to fall asleep. I can see his eyes are red, lids heavy. I feel a tiny gimmer of hope.

“Close your eyes, and picture things you like,” I tell him. “Calm things. Picture ducks on a pond. Ducks on a pond. The water is calm and quiet. Clouds in the sky. Close your eyes,” I drone on like a mantra. I close my eyes and silently count to 60 (one one-thousand, two one-thousand). At the end of a minute, I peek: he looks almost gone. I repeat for another minute.

He. Falls. Asleep.

It’s 8:10pm.

Done.