A détente in da house

After nearly two months of sleepless nights pierced by the screams and wails of an unhappy boy demanding attention, water or the cessation of "boom boom noises", peace has returned to our home...at least in the dark hours of the night. We are down to one middle-of-the-night explosion by each child, sometimes in quick succession, which leaves only one adult in the house unable to sleep afterwards. One of us is able to roll back over and snore like a cartoon bear while the other has a wide-awake brain listing all of the things that need to happen that day as well as wondering who will win Project Runway, why the toilet has that weird sulfur smell sometimes but not others, what is in the fridge that might somehow be pulled together to resemble a meal, whether Hilary Clinton can be trusted further than she can be thrown, are the towels in the dryer actually dry or turning into a pile of mildewed terry, if the dog was medicated that day, if that foot is asleep or if it's the onset of Sjogren's, and if bread is so, so very bad why does it taste so very, very good.

While our middle-of-the night hours are somewhat more peaceful, Madelena DID get the memo that as soon as one child ends an obnoxious or disturbing run of behavior, the other child must start one. With that in mind and not to be outdone or to totally abandon the category of "What is Sleep Deprivation", a few weeks ago Madelena suddenly began to scream and cry at the first mention of night-night time. One had only to say "da besitos a tu hermano" to set off tears and wails that lasted up to 90 minutes at a time.

The first two weeks, we were alarmed and sure that our precious and perfect child was either possessed or in pain and needed to be rocked, held and sung to until she finally dropped off into peaceful sleep. But then we realized that at no point did that actually work — the minute her little diaper-padded bottom hit her pink flannel sheets the screaming began again. And any time we entered the room she immediately ceased screaming and began to laugh, jump and shout "FISH! GATO! MIAOW! DADDY! GRACIAS!" and any other word she could summon forth from her burgeoning vocabulary. As she bounced gleefully and threw her panda at us, we knew we'd been had. And it was time to let her Cry. It. Out.

"Crying it out" is a concept that is foreign to most new parents, the antithesis of their belief that only by following the child's lead will they have an empowered, confident and loving being. To these tender newbies I have this to say: Ha. Ha. Hahahahahaha. Take off that leash your child has put around your bent neck, kiss her firmly on her beautiful face, tell her you love her and shut the door.

The first night we tried to get tough Madelena cried for an hour, during which time I rocked in a corner, hid in the bathroom with the fan on high, put on headphones and blasted Cake in my ears, and generally felt nauseated, cruel and ready to implode. Finally, I re-entered her room, only to have her immediately gleefully shout FISH and point to the bear on the floor, where all of the former inhabitants of her crib resided. I stayed for a while, saw her almost drop off to sleep, and then turn into a crazed monkey when put back in her crib. Once again, she had hand.

For the next two weeks, I learned how best to avoid the crying: headphones on in the office, ear plugs and a good CJ Box book, baths + earplugs + CJ Box books, and when all else failed the excuse of a meeting somewhere at exactly the same time as bedtime and lasting for approximately as long as her tears. Each night her crying stopped just a little bit earlier, and last night was down to seven minutes. The longest seven minutes of any listener's life, but a mere seven minutes rather than sixty.

Finally, tonight, it seemed that all those hours listening to muffled screams and doubting my own sanity and parenting skills may have paid off. As I lay Madelena down in her crib, she howled briefly in protest, grabbed her water from my hand and then proceeded to body slam her panda. I left her there in silence, panda smashed beneath her and a crocheted blanket firmly pulled around her head. And I knew that for now, the battle of wills was over between us and peace will reign. Until tomorrow, when Shawn Joaquin will get that message by special delivery that says "Tag, you're it" and he once again becomes the topic of all late-night adult conversation and questioning of our competency as parents.