Confessions Of A Killer.

Or, sleep killer, that is. What . . . or . . . Who is a "sleep killer", you ask? My son. My son is the killer of sleep. He has efficiently and effectively snuffed any rogue Zzzz's that were managing to occasionally pay a visit to our sleep deprived abode since his arrival four and a half months ago--and he is standing guard at the front door to ensure that none return, at least any time soon.

Last week we decided to ditch our robust social schedule of yoga, play dates, classes and play groups for a more sleep-attentive one--one where I would "pay attention to his tired cues" and attempt to immediately follow with a "prenaptime or prebedtime routine". This we were trying in lieu of our previous non-method method which included Noah sleeping wherever we happen to be whenever the mood of sleep may strike him as we had been doing with lukewarm success. Some days this worked quite well while others it didn't.

The results of our sleep experiment of sorts, however, failed to bring the rewards of rest we were anticipating. Instead it brought Noah no closer to naps or nighttime sleep than before and created an incredibly frustrated and interaction-deprived mommy. We are returning to our social schedule--we must, or else mommy will have to join the league of cuckoos at an institution with padded walls and drooling babblers--and we are crossing our fingers that Noey Finn one day finds the gentle folds of sleep as appealing as mommy and daddy do. In the meantime, on we trek down the dense woozy path of sleep deprivation--seeking a cozy cottage somewhere in a clearing hopefully up ahead where babies and their parents sleep all night and even perhaps nap during the day.