You are blessed. Your children, the most adorable beings on the planet, are finally sleeping through the night.
They’re over the newborn phase, during which they woke every two hours. They’re beyond the four-month-old sleep regression, where they woke every two and a half to three hours (which, it’s worth noting, occurred exactly one and a half weeks after the newborn phase, affording you just enough of a glimpse of what a well-rested future might look like only to have it wrenched out from under you). They’re beyond the eight-to-nine-month sleep regression (notable because they could stand and, if you were lucky enough to have a gifted child, tumble head-first out of their crib, video replay available on Nest) as well as the eighteen-month sleep regression (memorable because they could walk themselves right out of their room, scale any baby gate invented and deploy at high-volume a precocious vocabulary involving snacks.
But all of that is a thing of the past, and your angels now sleep blissfully through the night, their little cherub faces rosy-cheeked and peaceful. And you have ample time to contemplate their utter contentment and repose staring at you, taunting you really, in black and white through the baby monitor because by now your circadian rhythm has been completely hijacked and you are the one incapable of sleeping through the night. And while you function at roughly the same level as Chat GPT 4, you wonder at the possibility of a return to a more human and well-rested self.
But then you remember the valuable skills you’ve acquired during these early childhood years. After all, you sleep-trained your children approximately 47 times in a span of 24 months. So why not apply those principles to adult sleep, in five easy steps?
(Note: The below Sleep Training Plan is suggested only. You may have to repeat some steps depending on how many years your children, and therefore you, did not sleep through the night.)
Night One. You sit next to your bed in a darkened room. Every time your mind races and you feel tears welling up, you pat your mattress with a gentle soothing touch. Special note: do this at irregular intervals so you don’t get used to constant reassurance.
Night two. You sit on the floor halfway across the room from your bed. Rookies forget to bring a blanket, but you know better. Extra points for toting a pillow. You repeat, “You can do it, you can do it” over and over again until the words lose all meaning and you have no idea why you are speaking. You finally fall asleep at 5 am, to dream of adding ketchup to the laundry detergent dispenser.
Night three. You’ve made it to the doorway. You have the vague sensation that you’re somehow regressing (why is your bed so far away?). You practice the art of silent screaming with ninja-like mastery, your face an impenetrable vise.
Night four. You sit on the other side of the bedroom door. You no longer feel like screaming. You no longer need a blanket or a pillow. You marvel at the simplicity of the hallway - four walls, a ceiling, and a floor and begin to espouse theories on minimalism. You have embraced the art of radical acceptance and stare with zen-like serenity at the blank wall. You let go of all preconceived notions of time and space.
Night five. Congratulations. You have done it. You have achieved the unimaginable. You have broken free of the fetters of unconsciousness. What is sleep but a deep nothingness, a stupified, petrified senselessness? Sleep, you now know, is for mere mortals. You have reached a level of transcendence heretofore unattainable. You have assumed a higher level of consciousness than the rest of the sleeping world. You marvel at your fortitude and attack the waking hours with renewed vigor and focus.
If you could only find your keys.
Great writing and very fun to read.
I laughed out loud!!