I’m done. DONE. I’m done thinking my kid is going to grasp the art of a good night’s sleep. I’m through with the science of sleep training. Stevie Wonder said it himself, “Superstition ain’t the way,” but when all else fails, and superstition is all you have left to rely on, I say, “Do it.” I’m finished with art. I’m so over science. I have become sleeperstitious to the point of being a total whack job.
When my kid wakes up at 11pm for the first of three (maybe four) night feeds, I wait. I wait until precisely 11:11pm. Then I grasp both sides of the oven and speak directly to the clock. “Clock,” I say, “For the love of all things good and holy, make this baby sleep. I’ll give up half of his intelligence and a quarter of his good looks just for a morsel of sleep. Do it, 11:11. DO IT. Make it happen. ” You know how 11:11 responds? You know how? It responds by turning to 11:12 before I can even finish my plea. EVERY TIME. Stupid goddamn oven clock.
When I go to the drive thru and order a giant sloppy coffee after such a night, I continue on with my sleeperstition. “That’ll be $3.71!” the overly perky server says. I drive to the window and purposely give her the EXACT change. You know why? I give her the exact change because I KNOW she’s going to give me back the penny and tell me she doesn’t need it even though she told me my giant cup of heaven costs exactly $3.71. When she gives me back the penny I just gave her, I gasp on purpose, “A lucky penny!” I exclaim, “I need to make a wish! I wish for my adorable, highly intelligent baby to start sleeping through the goddamn night!” Then I throw the penny into my cup holder full of change as though it’s a wishing well. I squeal out of the drive thru for dramatic psycho mother effect hoping the same kid is working tomorrow morning so I can perform the whole charade again.
When all else fails, I pretend I’m Audrey Hepburn in ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s. (That’s a real superstition isn’t it?) I wrap a towel around my head and sit on my window sill and sing ‘Moon River’ over and over and over again. Sometimes I even get out my ukulele and play it poorly on purpose just to be authentic to the movie. When I look up I secretly hope a hunk is staring back at me, but instead I see stars. Stars and more stars. Because it’s the goddamn middle of the goddamn night and my baby won’t goddamn sleep. So I pick a star… a lucky one…the luckiest one of all so I can make my wish. But when I peek down at my uke strings because I’m too rusty to change chords without looking, I lose my lucky star in the sky. Which one was it?! They’re all so bright and shiny. Which one is the lucky one?! Now my wish will never come true. I give up on the stars and decide to drink a lucky glass of wine instead. Maybe two. And by two I mean a box. I drink a box of wine because when art, science, and sleeperstition fail you, you’ve still got wine.