Second-hand Insomnia

It is hard to describe the sheer frustration and exasperation that comes from being exhausted, yet lying awake at one a.m. in a loft-style upstairs bedroom, shared by your family of five, with no door, worrisome child-size holes between the railings of the extraordinarily steep stairs, a full moon shining brightly through bare windows, a Houdini-like insomniac two-year old, a four-year-old with a bloody nose, and a husband whose allergic sneezes echo through the loft like a lion roaring through the jungle. However, I will try.

I don’t know why, maybe it was the altitude, maybe it was because we had ignored his normal nap/sleep schedule for too long, maybe it was the new environment, or maybe it was because he ate too many of Grandma’s sour cherry candies, but for whatever reason (or perhaps all of those reasons) Andrew would not sleep. This was night number three of his sleep strike. I would put him in the Pack-n-Play, and he would climb out. I would put him in the Pack-n-Play, and he would climb out. I would put him in…you get the picture. So I tried to rock him. I sang songs, I sat silently. I tried this rhythm, I tried that. I tried to find a rhythm that would put me to sleep, hoping that it would also put him to sleep. I nodded off, but he did not. Finally, three hours later, yes THREE hours later ( I was desperate and yes, close to insanity) he fell asleep. I put him in his Pack-n-Play, and he did not climb out. I ever-so-quietly slipped downstairs.

Back downstairs. Adult time. YAY! My book was calling to me…or maybe a game of Scrabble? But no. As soon as I opened my book, a little face appeared around the corner. (Silent Primal Scream). A stinky diaper. I changed him, and John’s mom, Bev, perhaps sensing my impending psychotic breakdown, volunteered to rock Andrew to sleep. However, after about thirty minutes of a creaking floor, it was apparent that the only one interested in sleep was Grandma. A long day of grandsons and high altitude had taken its toll.

So, at 11:30, we relieved Grandma, and took the squirming toddler back upstairs, hoping, desperately hoping, for sleep. I put him in the Pack-n-Play, and he climbed out. I put him in the Pack-N-Play, angrily warned him to stay in it, and he climbed out. John put him in the Pack-N-Play, told him to “STAY IN BED!!” and he climbed out.

We put him in our bed. I have never had a fish in my bed, but I am guessing it would be similar to having an almost two-year-old under the covers. The difference however, is that a fish probably wouldn’t keep pointing out the window screaming “MOON! Stars! MOON! WooOOW! Stars! MOON!” Okay, so maybe you are thinking, “how cute!” Not at 1:30 am.

About this time (as the moon lit up our room like a 150 kilowatt light bulb), we realized that the bed we were sleeping on, a bed previously occupied by Sammy, a bed that did not belong to us, was covered in blood. And this was not just a little bloody nose. This was a previously rushing bloody nose that had not had adult attention. Stuffed animals, sheets, pillows, and poor little Sammy’s face were completely covered in drying blood. Perhaps normal, clean, non-exhausted and exasperated parents would have immediately gotten up and changed the sheets and changed the pillow cases. Nope. We wiped off Sammy’s face as well as we could with a few wet wipes and ignored the rest, immediately shifting our attention back to little Nemo who was now asking us to draw “letters” and “faces” on his brother’s Crayola Glow Pad. After several rounds of “A!” “B!” and “C!” and “More!” Andrew finally said, “Bed.” I put him in his Pack-n-Play and he did NOT climb out!!

Andrew is finally asleep and I am finally dozing off, dreaming about sugar cookies and quiet places, when AaAaHHHTCHOOOOoooo. AaAaAaTCHOOOOOOOOOO. AAAAAATTTTCCCHHHHOOOOO— shocking, tremor- inducing noises bursting from my husband’s mouth and nose, echoing throughout the bright-as-day, bloody, doorless, A-Frame cabin in the middle of the Rocky Mountains, over, and over, and over again.