My oldest son's 9th birthday is coming up on November 22nd. November 22 is a significant date for a number of reasons, both personal and historic. It was the day that JFK was assassinated, the day on which my favorite author died (C.S. Lewis) and it was the day that I realized my life was no longer my own.
I guess I should have come to that realization couple of Novembers prior, when I was married, but I can be slow to learn, and after two years of marriage I was still holding on to some pretty selfish notions of self determination. Once the first baby arrived, all such notions were pried from me. It started right away. After a long delivery (I feel guilty saying that, after all I was just along for the ride, but just ask my wife), we wanted little more than to sleep, but my son had other ideas. He cried until we finally relented and had him taken to the nursery. I've been in a perpetual state of crying babies ever since.
My older daughter followed a mere 19 months after my son, and when my youngest was born we had achieved near perfect symmetry - boy, girl, boy, girl - 6, 5, 2 and new. It's the choice we made, and I wouldn't have it any other way, but sometimes it feels like I haven't had a good night's sleep in 9 years.
Last night was one of those nights. The youngest, now 2, has decided she's done with sleeping, at least when we want her to. We were in bed by 10:00, but she was up periodically throughout the night, screaming like something was horribly wrong, even though it wasn't. On such nights my wife and I fake sleep until one of us finally relents and goes to stop the crying. Last night, as with all such nights, we pull her from the crib and do a quick inventory - no fever, no dirty diaper, her blanket in place. She can talk a little, so I ask her what's wrong. No response. I rock her a little, put her back in bed, ease her door shut and tip toe back to the bed, crawl underneath the warm comforter and no sooner does my head the pillow than the crying starts again. I lost track of how many times she woke up last night. Sometime around 3:00 we finally pulled her into bed with us in hopes she'd calm down. She was happy, but she didn't calm down. She talked, and turned herself horizontal in the bed to make sure she was touching both of us. It's tough to sleep that way. Around 3:45 I couldn't take it anymore so I put her back in her crib. I was angry at her for crying, angry at my wife for giving birth to her, and angry at God for not making it all stop. OK, I'll admit that lose perspective when sleep deprived. As 4:00 approached, I reset my alarm, sure that my planned 5:00 run wasn't going to happen.
At 5:07 the unexplained crying started again and I announced, loud enough for God and my wife to hear, "screw it, I may as well run!" Bleary-eyed after a patchwork night of sleep that couldn't have accumulated to more than 5 hours, I pulled on my running clothes, strapped on my ipod and stepped into the 37 degree air. I ran nearly 5 miles, cooled down, showered, walked my older kids to their bus, and said good-bye to my wife and younger son. All the while the baby was sleeping peacefully, content that her work was done.
It's nearly 9:00 in the evening now and I am still at the office. I started this blog post at lunch and am just finishing this last paragraph while waiting for a document to print, the fruit of a long day's labor. I'll be reading that lease at this same desk in less than 11 hours, before my little girl wakes up (at least permanently). She's been asleep for awhile now, but I suspect that she'll wake up around the time I fall asleep. I'll be honest, it'll be nice to see her. I owe her for getting me up in time for my run, and for reminding me that my life is not my own. I'm kind of glad that it's not.
