Ride on the Sleep Train

I'm going to mix metaphors and sprinkle competing analogies liberally here. I'm tired.

That's not new; I have a pre-schooler, a full-time job, and a husband in a band (who is also tired), but the pre-schooler, who has never been the best sleeper on the planet, has developed a new habit of bedtime torture.

To the pain.

You may recall that "To the pain" means that one will be left in anguish, wallowing in freakish misery forever.

I may be behaving a bit dramatically, but hyperbole is the last refuge of the truly privileged, so I am going to stomp and whine like my ridiculous demon child because this is my space, so NYAH!

Awhile back, we instituted some progressive waiting, in the hopes that it would help babywhumpus learn to fall asleep on his own, without persistent lullabye-ing or boob. It worked pretty well. We could tell him we would check on him in 5 or 10 minutes, and in general, he would fall asleep before the time was up. We had incidents, sure, but nothing to write here about.

Then last Friday rolled around.* daddywhumpus had a gig, and I was coming down with something.** I decided that I was going to be Low-impact Mom (code for: Lazy Mom) and let him eat at his little table in the living room while he watched his movie or show of choice. I needed to sit and stare.

At 9:07, after minutes of talking, water, wipes, fixing the music, asking for the planets spinning, I gave him the five minute warning. At 11:25, I decided that if he wasn't asleep, I was going to cry again.

In between, there was crying, screaming, calling "I'm poopy," saying his tummy hurt, asking for medicine, I have a poop, My diaper is wet, I have a wet diaper, I have a poopy diaper, I have a poopy diaper, I have a poopy diaper, I have a poopy diaper, I have a poopy diaper, I have a poopy diaper, I have  a poopy diaper. It's poopy. My diaper is poopy. It's poo poo. Change my diaper. Change my poopy diaper. Mama! Daddy! No! I don't want to! (screaming, waiting for a response, screaming, kicking on the bed.) I don't want to go to sleep. I don't want to take a nap. I have snotties. Mama, I have snotties. Hey, Mama, I have snotties. MAMA! MAAAMA!!! MAAMAA! Mama, where are you? Mama, oh Mama. Come back! Come back! Hey Mama! I don't want you to go. I want more drinks! Mama! Come back!

I broke down at 6 minutes, like an idiot. He was standing right by his bed, and he handed me a wipe so I could wipe his nose. I was loosing my temper, not calm like I want to be in these instances. I told him I would have to close the door if he got out of bed again, so he ordered me to come back and close the door.

Commence: No, mama, no mama, no mama no no don't do that. don't do that. hey mama don't do that. (Now it's just bad song lyrics.) Hey mama I told you don't do that no don't come back don't get your computer open. Don't, I told you not to. I don't want mama. I want mama to close the door. Mama Mama Mama Mama. Mama don't. I don't want you to open the computer. I'm wet. I'm WET. No. I'm wet. I have a wet diaper.  Mama come back right now. Mama I told you. Mama. I want daddy. I want daddy, mama. Mama I don't want you. I want to wake up. AAAAAAH! I scream! Mama! Mama! NOOOOOOO! NOOOOOO! Mama I wanna wake up!

At 9:42, I went in, in silence, put him back in bed under the covers, closed the door, and latched it.

Commence: Knock knock who's there? It's mama. Is it mama? Yes. Come back! Owie Owie Owie Owie. Daddy! Owie, you closed the door. You closed the door. Open the door. Knock Knock. Knock Knock. Knock Knock who's there? Is it Mama? Yes? Mama where are you come back now. Come in. Come in. I told you not to close the door. I want my daddy. Mama come in. Mama right now. Mama come in. Mama come in.

From 9:48 to 9:59, I completely broke down and tears and lost it while he sat on my lap, dumbfounded, not knowing what to do. I used one of his flannel wipes on my mascara-stained face, and I put him back into bed, and he began screaming again. I sat on the couch, trying to suppress my own scream, which I could feel building in my throat

He kept it up until 11:25

Saturday, it was the same show, different night, with the added attraction of him pummeling his wooden seal push toy handle into the closed wooden door of his bedroom. We sat in the living room in silence, he on the couch, me in the rocker until he lay down and fell asleep at 11:30. I put him into his bed at midnight.

Sunday and Monday have been similar--though admittedly not as bad--with the difference that daddywhumpus has been home, which really hasn't been helpful. Not that it's been hurtful, but any hope I had that he was just acting out for me or because daddy was out has been totally dashed. I am going into tonight, assuming it, too, will suck.

(To the pain means the first thing you will lose will be your feet below the ankles. Then your hands at the wrists. Next your nose. The next thing you will lose will be your left eye followed by your right. Your ears you keep and I'll tell you why. So that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideousness will be yours to cherish. Every babe that weeps at your approach, every woman who cries out, "Dear God! What is that thing," will echo in your perfect ears.)

*we are now almost two weeks into the sleep strike. I have been sitting on this for awhile.
**still sick.