I have a problem.
I have birthed little FOMO babies. True to the century they were born in, the miniature humans who live in our house suffer from extreme Fear of Missing Out. This is not an affliction that solely affects the twenty-somethings in our midst, but it is a clear and present danger in our house. Especially at 2:30 in the morning.
Two hyphen thirty. Letter A. Letter M.
Unless you are working the graveyard shift – which, as one nurse-friend of mine said the other day, is her idyllic shift, “because all the patients are asleep!” – or happen to be named Edward Cullen, no human should be up at this hour. (Parents of newborns are a rare exception: Congratulations! Welcome to parenthood! This is what bonds us together. Coffee was invented just for you. Early morning hang-outs are also your newfound birth control). And this list of humans not being up at this hour includes almost nine month old little boy-humans who know better.
Because they know how to sleep through the night.
Now, I’m not naming names – FRODO – but when such a human decides to wake up at 11 and show the world – not naming names, but his MAMA – his laughing, singing, talking, screaming, gurgling, crying, eating, feeding, eye-rubbing skills, there’s got to be a better time for me to see witness such creativity. I mean, I want to cheer on the little dude, but when the clock strikes midnight, and then 1 o’clock and then 2 o’clock, and my brain is quick-floating down the Mississippi on a log raft, I ain’t got time for this.
I got time for counting sheep and I got time for earplugs and I got time for warm and snuggly feather comforters and I got time for SLEEP. But I ain’t got time for his little Up All Night shenanigans. I did not sign up to chaperone the junior high lock-in, but I signed up to sleep.
Or did I?
For when a so overly-tired little man just thinks you’re the bee’s knee’s and wants to snuggle lap-side, couch-side, chair-side and hip side for three hours, sometimes you just say yes. And then when you finally realize his little FOMO party is never and will never come to a close if he’s the one calling the shots (and that it’s not actually an ear infection), you start playing Coach. You drag the pack n play to the middle of the dining room, you sing “You are My Sunshine” for the 800th time that evening/morning/ungodly time of day, and then you close every in-between door in the house, and you have yourself a merry little five hours of sleep.
Because, after all, this is what stories are made of.
And really, would we really have it any other way?
So, what say you? “Uh, Cara …wake up and smell the coffee beans, sister.” “Did you think parenthood really warranted sleep-filled nights? Mwah ah ah ah.” Go ahead. Carry on now.0