Sleep is for the weak

We have been struggling with sleep issues with Shawn Joaquin for many months now, summoned to his bed up to 20 times nightly with wails and screams that ultimately end with him sniffling and saying "nuffing" when we ask him what's wrong. We have tried incentive programs, punishment, door open, door closed, explanations, coaxing, yelling, removal of special blankets, toys, lights, and books. We have promised multiple viewings of Shrek, ice cream for breakfast, trips to the zoo, the moon and the restaurant of his choice. We have tried tapes, videos, sound machines, total freedom of movement throughout the room, silence in all other rooms and dozens of books in bed. All for naught and resulting in nothing more than the deterioration of our adult time together and the firmness of the skin beneath our eyes. 

After nearly nine months of this, I finally lost my mind with him one night and became someone I would never want caught on tape, and am now officially off the casting list for Moment of Truth. So I changed tactics — from that night forward, sleep time would be known as Operation: Who Is Shawn Joaquin. 

At the Operation's launch,  we explained to Shawn Joaquin that his job at night was to go to bed, and our job was to spend mama and daddy time together. We would eat dinner, watch TV and do whatever we used to do before we spent 2 hours arguing with him at bedtime. We would be here, we would love him and we would not leave the house. But we would also not talk to him after his requisite Mama Time and Daddy Book Time - once we said goodnight, he would cease to exist until the morning. In the morning we would cuddle him. In the wee small hours he would be persona non grata. 

After spending a great deal of time explaining this, accompanied by lots of nods and assertions of "yeah, I'm gonna stay in bed and have good behavior," we began. Within three minutes Shawn Joaquin was outside his room screaming for Gregg, infuriated when he didn't hear pounding footsteps coming down the stairs. For the next hour, he alternately screamed, cried and ran when he felt he had finally lured us to his room. He actually appeared happy and excited when he saw me coming down the stairs, then furious when he realized that I was not there to berate or punish him but to change into my Nick and Nora fruit-covered pajamas. 

Forty-five minutes of screaming later, we settled in to eat dinner and watch TV like sedentary adults in other homes. We ignored Shawn Joaquin as he crept up the stairs quietly, aching to be caught and punished. For two hours he stalked us, finally losing interest and playing with a piece of string he found on the stairs, possibly considering the string a replacement for his once-attentive parents. At some point he quietly wandered back to his bedroom, emerging when we went to bed to peer into the darkened room and determine whether there was any chance of rousing us and sending us screaming down the hallway. We were not to be baited. 

We are now in week three of Who Is Shawn Joaquin, and our success has been mixed. He now drops off to sleep around 9pm instead of 11pm, a heavy book on his head and one arm flung over the side of the bed. He has permanently lost the light bulb in his lamp, forced to read by the dimmer light of his still-bright night light, a tactic for which we may end up paying for with bifocals at the age of eight. He still wakes up once or twice a night to scream that Gregg should be working in his office or that we should not be sleeping  or — to our great but stifled amusement — to run down the hall with his palms flat over his eyes screaming "I CAN'T SEE! I CAN'T SEE! SOMEONE, HELP ME!" 

I see a future on Broadway for him or, more likely, an off-Broadway play entitled "When I Didn't Exist" where — in a darkened theater that bears a slight whiff of self-pity mixed with fear sweat — he can work through his painful childhood years. Then perhaps he, and all of us, will finally sleep.

Jesus, take the wheel

Life as the parents of two young children takes a daily toll on my marriage and my home. We had no idea how easy we had it with Shawn Joaquin prior to Madelena's arrival - he was a neat freakin', 12-hour sleeping, caution-seeking sweet boy who had a penchant for thousands of questions but few temper tantrums or other less-than-appealing behaviors. Now he's been replaced with a flailing, red-faced, screaming banshee whose life has been ruined by his parents insistence on good behavior, sleeping in his own bed for at least a few hours every night, and a sister who points at him during his fits and says in a bored tone of voice "Hermano CRY, CRY, CRYYY."

Amidst the madness we attempt to have a few sane moments, some child-free, and focus on the times when everyone is fed, clean and happy. This is more difficult to achieve than one might imagine, primarily because of my own inability to achieve success in those three areas myself.

When I worked in the city, I shined up every day. My clothing was current, fitted and flattering. My footware was hot, heeled and unscuffed. My hair was bouncin' and behavin' and my makeup natural but complete. I had my non-fat yogurt and Peet's coffee before leaving the house, and picked up a nice plate of ham and eggs on the way to my neat and fashionable office. Fast forward to today.

Current attire: baggy jeans with a suspicious stain on the right leg, running socks that have apparently swiffered the floor near the dog bed. Hair in a pony tail since a shower was not to be this morning, make up reduced to tinted moisturizer and a quick swipe of the lip gloss brush. Underwear MIA, since none were conveniently near the jeans crumpled on the floor. Breakfast of an Atkins bar and some once-hot coffee, shoved down while making a ham sandwich that will surely be abandoned by Shawn Joaquin come lunch time. My only accessories my watch and my pedometer, showing the priorities of my life. Yet Gregg leaves the house showered, shaved and well-dressed. Shawn Joaquin sharply put together in his Oaklandia shirt and jeans, face shiny and hair wet but neat. Madelena looking like her usual catalog-baby self, matched from her hair bands down to her socks. This is the most common circumstance - one of these things is not like the other, and one of those things is ME. To quote David Byrne, how did I get here?

I must remind myself, as I look at my tired eyes and less-than-put-together self: By choice. I chose this life, I chose these kids, and I chose my sharp-dressed man. And someday, when the kids are able to take care of themselves and no longer need me to pick out the clothes, make the lunches and wipe up the bottoms or tears, I will look back — well-dressed, coiffed and once again ready for my close up — and ask again...how did I get here? And miss these days of being needed, however painfully, with all my heart.