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Browsing Tag: co-sleeping

Even Though We’re Tired

Cian doesn’t sleep at night. He climbs into the spare twin bed in Quinlan’s room because he, the third-born child, is frightened to be alone. He cries for another hug, for another nightlight, for another drink of water. At eleven o’clock, he comes into our room. At one o’clock, he comes in again. At three o’clock, he’ll appear once more, but we’ll be too tired to notice, so in a few hours we wake for the day to find his little, long form in the bed with us, wedged in between our bodies, one hand resting on a parent’s shoulder.  He doesn’t sleep. Which means we don’t, either. And then, then, after a full day of preschool and playing and chasing Riley around the house, at four-thirty in the evening, when we drive over to the school to pick the girls up from their Lego and creative writing clubs, he talks nonstop. He points out the clouds, and the cars, and asks me if skeletons have teeth. He chats about his classmates, and about Dino Trux, and if…

To Everything, Turn, Turn, Turn

Cian doesn’t sleep through the night by himself. I mean, this isn’t something new: I don’t think he’s really slept through the night well since he was about 20 weeks prenatal, rolling around in my belly at 2 a.m. like some deranged BMX biker on Red Bull (speaking of Red Bull: is that still around? Or am I just remembering 1999 a little better than I should?). We moved him out of a crib into his real bed a few months ago, thinking that maybe he was just too big for the confined space (he was) and that having more room would help him relax (it didn’t). So here we are now: lying down with him as he falls asleep at night (third child says, “haha, SUCKERS!”), then jolting out of sleep around 11, 12, 1 in the morning when he wakes up, realizes we’re not with him, and either cries like we’ve all decided to go to  Fiji and leave him behind, or shuffles into our room to crawl into our bed like some cat burglar with separation issues, and we wake…

Somebody Remind Me of This When I’m Losing My Mind

I don’t need to tell you what our Saturday nights of yore were like, back when we were young(er) and didn’t have gray streaks running through our hair and would actually be bored on a weekend. You know what they were like, because you lived them at one point, too.  You were out of the house, drinking and eating and seeing neat sights that cost money to access, and you didn’t care if you went to bed late because you could sleep in and whatever, man, just bring me another beer, okay? This Saturday night found us cooking hot dogs (vegetarian for me and the girls, because apparently now that the first trimester is over, unless it’s a McDonald’s cheeseburger, I am a STRICT vegetarian. Strict, I tell you. Except for that chicken I had yesterday, but only because I was famished and had to eat before I started gnawing away at my own arm. I’m so back on the wagon, yessir…except for the cheeseburger I’m suddenly craving because I just wrote the words “McDonald’s cheeseburger” right there. Dagnabit…