The Sandman Cometh

I am asleep. Finally asleep. The iPod earbuds have fallen out, their cord somehow tangled loosely around my neck without strangling me. Then the baby wakes.

It starts out small: grunts and squirms. Next come a series of short, abrupt “Wahs.” When Mother Milk Wench still has not arrived, she lets loose into full-scale caterwauling.

I refuse to accept it at first. I lie there, still half-asleep, and holler back. That’s the kind of mother I am. “PoppySeed! Child! Let me sleep!” I plead. No deal. Get your butt out of bed, Mama.

I groggily stumble to the crib, stand there and make my ritual two-second examination of my temper. I don’t touch the baby until I know I am in control and can do it gently. Check. I lift her softly and hold her against my shoulder.

She is wet all across her belly. There is a rust-colored stain on the bed. Little Baby Blowout has done it again.

To the changing pad. She calms down a bit once I get the dirty diaper and onesie off, but starts up again when that wet wipe cleans her belly.

I take her to the glider and nurse her in my lap, trying not to nod off. She finishes. I burp her. She spits up half-digested milk all down my back. This child makes more cheese than Mother Noella.

I lay her back in the crib. I change my t-shirt. I lie back down.

Oh, sleep! I long for you like an exile for her homeland, like a frat boy for beer, like a Cubs fan for a Pennant! Someday, when the babies are bigger, we shall be reunited. Until then.