On the seventh day of Christmas, my true loves gave to me…..seven minutes crying, six undone advents, a five seater Volvo SUV…….four Diego drawings, three tasty treats, two U.S. passports and a mushy brain with no memory.
It was 10pm. The professor and I were trying to get stuff done. Work for him. Who knows what for me. When the littlest Johnson started crying. He’d been asleep a whopping two hours.
Since I was not asleep and felt up to the task of dealing with the possible ramifications of additional awake children, I decided to let him cry. Just for a bit. ‘I’m going to see if he can fall back asleep on his own,’ I warned Jason. Lest he thought I hadn’t heard the crying and went upstairs to get the little man.
I sat down at the computer to do some very important Facebook-checking; to keep my mind off the ensuing wailing. All while watching the clock. What is it about baby-crying that even one minute of it feels like an hour?
About seven minutes later, the house was silent again. ‘Did you go check on him?’ I asked the professor. ‘Nope’ he replied ‘who knew’.
As in, who knew it was possible for a baby to cry for a few minutes and fall asleep again. It seemed positively…miraculous.
We’re a little battle-scarred, chez Johnson. Our last infant – the Hen – was, what some might consider, an appalling sleeper. For all his exceptional qualities: round cheeks, hilarity, remarkable pain tolerance, and general adorableness…..he was, and is still, inept at going to bed and staying asleep.
Even tonight, the clock had struck 9. The Gort was lying facedown on his bed. Snoring. And the Hen was sitting up in his crib. Wide awake. Paging through ‘The Places You’ll Go’, asking to be covered with ‘blankies’, asking for water, asking ‘whayouwannadotoday’. As if it was nap-time instead of the end of the day. Pointing perplexedly at his slumbering brother – as if he was the weird one for sleeping. At night.
So, absurd as it may sound, P-baby’s short spell of tears was the Johnson equivalent of a (minor) Christmas miracle. Even if his arrival necessitated the acquisition of the ‘beloved’ car-van, we are quite fond of B3.