After the third consecutive night of no sleep, I was starting to lose it.
Our newborn daughter, who had looked so sweet and angelic in the moments right after her birth (9 on the APGAR – you go, girl!) had morphed into a demonic nighttime presence.
She needed less sleep than any human I had ever encountered. And when she did snooze, she did so with hair-trigger sensitivity to the environmental cues to full alertness: an adult cranium touching a pillow, an eyelid closing and not reopening within a tenth of a second.
As I walked around the bedroom, holding and bouncing her, for the third hour in a row (FitBit, where were you when I needed you?), I was struck by what seemed like a really good idea: go through my Rolodex (yes, an actual Rolodex – look it up, kids) and see who might want a baby to raise for the next 18 years or so.
Thankfully, my wife talked me out of it (or we went through our contacts and didn't want to bother them with a phone call at 3am, I honestly can't remember which), and so we kept on parenting.
Years of sleepless nights ensued, and approximately 18 months after our daughter began sleeping through the night, we met our newborn son, thus establishing with scientific precision the outer limits of human memory. And he was not much of a sleeper either.
In fact, it's only now, when they're 24 and 20 years old, respectively, that I'm truly starting to catch up on the Lost Years of Shuteye. It's like student loans, only nobody talked about forgiving my sleep debt at the Bernie rally last week.
And I tell you this not to brag.
Really.
If you want me to brag, I can probably muster up some stuff.
But taking care of tiny screaming babies in the middle of the night – every night – never felt like a choice.
At least not after the Rolodex.
Sometime's It's Not a Choice
Sometimes it just has to be done.
That's not precisely true, of course. There are plenty of stories of parents abandoning their kids, neglecting them, ignoring their needs, imposing well-intentioned “self-soothing” periods.
But to me and my wife, tending to our kids at night never felt optional. We knew that no matter what, if we had strength and breath, we'd cuddle them, change them, feed them, change them, burp them, change them, sing to them, take their temperature, tell them a story, change them, and so on.
We were in total Giving Tree mode for years. (“‘Come, kids, teethe on my fingers. Pee on my shirt. And then you will be, if not happy, mollified for a minute and a half.”)
If parenting at that level had required motivation, we would have failed. There's no amount of motivation that would have fueled our nightly care routines for that long. Tony Robbins could go suck a garden hose for all the good “getting us into state” would have done.
If parenting under those conditions required self-discipline and willpower, we would have failed. We were so ego-depleted by 3am that I probably would have been willing to sell my eternal soul to the Devil for an uninterrupted 20-minute nap in a made bed.
There weren't any self-help books that would have helped. There was no missing knowledge, no absent skills. There was nothing complex about the actions we had to take, night after night, day after day, to keep these little beings alive and well. We just had to DO, and DO, and DO, over and over and over again.
If it hadn't felt totally and completely non-negotiable, we would have failed.
Sure, there were strategies that made it easier. (My favorite one was not lactating, which meant there were times that I could stay in bed because I was useless. Sorry, Hon.)
Entire bookshelves at Barnes & Noble were devoted to techniques and hacks and tools and mindsets to help us get our kids to go to sleep and stay asleep.
Some of them worked, to a certain extent.