Morning Wakeup: 5:30 a.m.
Nap #1 7:10 a.m. – 8:30 a.m.
Nap #2: 10 a.m. to 11:45 a.m.
Nap #3: 1:30 p.m. to 3:10 p.m.
Etc., etc. We’re doing an approximate 90-minute sleep/wake cycle thing, and it seems to be working.
The first few weeks were a fucking adorable sleepless shit show, but we seem to be figuring things out now thanks to the science of observing and recording baby’s sleepy signals. As you know, Dr. Sun, our little devil was a fussy “problem sleeper,” despite being constantly swaddled in soothing essential oil-scented blankets and living in a home that has a lavender oil diffusing cool mist humidifier in every room. Literally. Every room.
Willa and I are very grateful that we’ve been blessed with such a beautiful, healthy boy who loves to eat and shits like a dream, but he almost never slept for more than forty-five minutes at a time and preferred to sleep while being driven in a car, pushed in a stroller, or held in my rocking arms. This made it nearly impossible for me to do anything else.
Our nanny Margarita is tasked with caring for the twins all day, and we’ve found that it’s best for all of us if she gets a good eight hours of sleep each night. She helps out with the baby when the kids are in school. Willa is getting ready to launch a new line of fine fragrances and she has a team to oversee, so I’ve put my career on hold for two months in order to devote myself to Oliver’s body clock and getting him the fuck to sleep, while also somehow managing to remind the twins and my wife that I love them just as much as I did before I started obsessing about this beautiful, diabolical infant.
I’ve read the books. I’ve read the Internet. I’ve logged every vacant stare, slow blink, yawn, head tilt, ear tug, eye rub, and Mr. Cranky Pants Dance. We’ve created a comforting, monotonous sleep environment for him in his bedroom.
We have all become experts at keeping this baby entertained for ninety-minute periods before winding things down and soothing him to sleep again. Turns out Ollie really likes it when Summer sings showtunes to him, he’s very alert when Lucky tries to explain everything he knows about the world to him, and he practically stands at attention when Margarita goes on one of her Spanish rants. Like me, he could just stare at his mother and nuzzle her breasts all day. He is infuriatingly happy and calm when she’s around. He coos and farts roses and burps rainbows for Mommy.
But it turns out, to my horror, that it’s my singing voice that lulls him to sleep when all else fails. Apparently, my limited vocal range provides him with exactly the right amount of unstimulating monotony. That’s the good news. The bad news is, the more I sing to him, the better I seem to be getting. It is totally conceivable that one day in the near future I will no longer sing “Baby Mine” off key. But one step at a time, as my lovely wife continually reminds me. On the bright side—I will finally be able to do a musical with Zac. Or maybe I’ll do one without him—because fuck you, Zac Efron. You try maintaining a six-pack with three little kids.
I honestly don’t even know how I got through life without Willa. I’m getting on average three to five hours of sleep lately. On a good day. I have no complaints. I get to live with my four favorite people on earth. And Margarita. When I do get to crawl into bed at night, my gorgeous wife is lying there naked, and if I’m having trouble drifting off, she always remembers a little trick that Dr. Shaw told me about. On occasion, I have been known to slumber with my head between her legs, because sometimes I sleep better knowing that I can still make the mother of my child scream my name into a pillow.
I know this is supposed to be about Oliver, but until he can write this thing himself, I’ll be including my own musings about handjobs and cunnilingus.
Sorry if you don’t like swearing, nudity, or sex, Dr. Sun, but this baby sleep journal is rated R because I can’t get through this period of infant neurological development without swearing, nudity, or my wife.
It has been four years since I first realized that I can’t sleep unless Willa is living under my roof. It’s still true. I don’t always get to sleep as much as I want to, but I get through every waking moment as long as I know that she’ll be in my bed at night. There was a time when I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to give her everything that she deserves because of the kids, but I never stop trying and she’s never stopped blossoming. I think the truth is that she is everything—all on her own. She doesn’t need me to give her anything. She just wants me. And that is really fucking comforting.
Hopefully it won’t take Oliver twenty-eight years to find what he’s looking for, but he has us to help him figure it out. Me and Willa, and the twins, and this fucking amazing sleep diary.
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