On Monday, Henry woke up at 3 a.m., sobbing, so I went to his room to calm him down and "asked" Ty to run down to the kitchen and warm up a cup of milk for him. I hoped that with some efficient teamwork we could get our little night owl right back to bed and avoid yet another too-early wake up call.
I started reading "Dragons Love Tacos" to sweet, sniffling Henry, finished it, and then read it again. I heard the microwave door slam downstairs but 5 more minutes passed and my husband still had not arrived with warm milk. Henry snuggled up and pleaded "more, mamma!" so I opened the book and read it again, starting to worry about Ty.
As I turned the last page my husband appeared, eyes half-shut, wobbling at the top of the stairs. He carried no warm milk, but instead, a wooden bowl.
"Ty" I rushed over to him, "are you ok?! Where's Hank's milk?"
He blinked a long blink and handed me the bowl. It was filled to the brim with what looked like half melted ice cubes and water. "I don't know what you wanted." He said. "I brought you this."
Our working theory is that he put a wooden bowl of ice in the microwave.
In the words of Jim Gaffigan, "Thaaaaanks hoooooney."
One morning, early in our marriage, Ty's phone alarm kept going off but he was dead to the world. I super sweetly grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "Honey! Your alarm has literally been going off for 10 minutes. GET. UP."
"Wha? Huh?! Kay."
He shut off his alarm, slowly climbed out of bed, and walked across the room to our dresser. He opened a middle drawer, leaned over, and started whispering into it.
New to his unique sleep habits, this was super creepy to me.
"Ty! What are you doing?"
He ignored me and continued speaking in hushed tones to his undershirts. After another riveting minute he closed the drawer, walked back to our bed, and cuddled up like nothing had happened.
"Ty!! Wake up!" I put my hand on his cheek "Hello!"
He opened his eyes, slightly, and smiled. "Hello."
"What were you doing over there by the dresser?"
He closed his eyes and smiled again. "Tiger Woods is in our drawer. He gave me all of the secrets to golf. All of them." He rolled over and went back to sleep.
•••
It is currently 3:47 a.m. and I have been awake for the last 2 hours, not because of our children but just thanks to some good old pregnancy induced discomfort/insomnia. The worst kind of awake to be, in my opinion. And yet, as I type on my phone and giggle about what a weirdo my husband is at night, I can't help but feel overwhelmingly grateful for my sweet, funny little family and even for our sleepless nights.
Don't get me wrong, becoming a parent has made me a firm believer that sleep deprivation is a form of slow and painful torture. Moms who can slam some coffee, put on makeup, and happily function on 3 hours of sleep are like strange, beautiful unicorns to me. When I get 3 hours of sleep I feel like I spend the day trudging through thick mud, and I definitely don't look cute doing it.
Everyone says we are going to miss this and while the sentiment can sound a bit like nails on a chalkboard when I am walking around with mascara smudged under my eyes like some sort of deranged zombie-mom... "surviving not thriving," as they say... I know their words are true.
I already miss it, in a way. Even when the days are long, the months go by so fast. I blink and Violet has stopped calling smoothies "mooshies." Henry is helping himself to a cup of water (preferably from the fridge)... time is flying faster than it ever has before.
This morning I'm thankful for the hard stuff because I am reminded that it so very often comes hand in hand with the best stuff.
Now, to make some coffee and start my day. This sleep thing is for the birds (and Tyler).
kb
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