Knitting The Ravelled Sleeve

Patrick did not sleep through the night for the first thirteen months of his life. I remember that number, thirteen, because I scratched it repeatedly into the back of my hand during the sleep-deprived delirium I suffered from the moment of his birth until, roughly, July of 2003. In the very beginning he would wake up six or seven times a night. After a few months the every hour thing  gradually eased up, such that when nice people at Target and the gas station would ask if Baby was sleeping well I was able to reply  "Why yes! Yesterday he only woke me up at 11:00 and 1:00 and 3:00 and 4:30 and 5:30 before getting up for good a little after 6:00." Then I would ask them if they would please remove some of the live birds that were nesting in my hair.

That first year was a little rough, sleep-wise.

It gets better. You think it never, ever will and that you will remain hollow and brittle from exhaustion for the rest of your grievously shortened life, but it gets better. Now when Patrick wakes up in the middle of the night it is always because he is sick and so, apart from the difficulties of administering liquid Tylenol in total darkness to an irascible child, it is an infrequent and easily managed occurrence.

I suppose I should say it is usually because he is sick.

Last night I opened a bottle of red wine after reading that, in addition to all its other health benefits, researchers have just discovered that red wine helps fight diabetes. Steve's last physical indicated his glucose levels are on the high side of normal so I decided it was in his best interests to drink a few ounces. Then, because the bottle looked rather sloppy just sitting there with only half a glass missing, I finished the rest of it.

Some time later, after arguing politics with the cat, having my way with Steve and successfully negotiating the bathroom floor (who left that tub there? very dangerous), I fell into the deep and peaceful repose of the pious, expecting to be fully restored to health and lucidity after a good eight or maybe ten hours. Imagine my confusion when I was awakened a mere 45 minutes later by the sound of fake crying coming from Patrick's room. I ignored it. He stopped and then started again just as I was about to fall back asleep. Eh-hehn-hehn, eh-hehn-hehn.

I stumbled up to his room.

"Ah, there you are, Mommy," said a pompous little voice in the darkness as I fumbled the door open (he really talks like that for some reason. he says "ah" and "indeed" and he rarely uses contractions. very normal, is our Patrick.)

"I just thought of a story and I wanted to tell it to you."

What?

He's crazy, isn't he? You can tell me. My child is grapetastically insane.

"Patrick," I said, shoving him over in bed and climbing in beside him, since I was FREEZING (stupid Minnesota), "no. Too late. Very late. Dark. No talking. Shhhhh."

"But Mommy, I just thought of a story and I wanted to tell it to you. I did. Indeed I did. I just thought of it and I wanted you to... I wanted to tell it to you."

I shushed him again.

"But mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy... ."

"FINE. Tell me the story QUICKLY and then stop talking and go to SLEEP."

There was a long pause. Had he actually... fallen asleep?

"Mommy."

No, not asleep, offended. His tone was as of one wounded.

"Aren't you going to go get a pen so you can write down what I say?"

Crazy. Like Nero-crazy, I think.

Comments

[Blue]

Hahahahaha! Mommy, can you take a memo?