Anything But Routine

Each and every day starts about roughly the same time at our home. 

Sometime between 6 a.m. and 6:15 a.m. Mrs. Blackwell and I crawl out of bed. This is after an evening in which one of us has no doubt risen to provide Master Blackwell with a middle-of-the-night feeding. 

Those occasions when the boy — and by extension Mrs. Blackwell and I — sleep through the night are rare. So, we're usually pretty groggy.

But that said, we must be fleet of foot to prepare for our day, get ourselves ready, find presentable clothing, make breakfast, make lunches and gather all we'll need for work.

Then there's him. We must pack his bag for day care. We'll need bibs. We'll need bottles. And did he soil yesterday's backup outfit? Yes. Ok. We'll be needing a new backup outfit too. Is it still 35 degrees outside? We live in Madison Wisconsin so, yes. Ok. He'll need a winter coat and a toque.

And of course, we'll need his primary outfit for the day. 

We must perform these tasks quickly because the moment the boy wakes up, priorities shift. At that point you're attempting to simultaneously cater to the whims of a baby while performing each of the aforementioned tasks. 

Some days this is quite easy. Some days the little guy is awake, sitting up in his crib and greeting us with a grin when we enter his room. His mood is brilliant. He's a compliant, smiling little boy who giggles while having his diaper changed and helps get ready by slipping his arms through his shirt sleeves like they're made of warm butter. Naturally the whole process is easier when both Mrs. Blackwell and I are home.

But, some days there aren't two of us. One of us has to get to work early, leaving the other to shoulder the load. 

This isn't so bad when it's one of those smiling, compliant, warm butter days. But when you're all alone and it's not one of those days, good luck.

Recently I was alone in the morning and it was not a warm butter day. I had the outfits ready, the bottles filled, the bibs packed and myself dressed in short order.

But when I entered his room  I was not greeted with an awake, smiling baby, instead I got:

Pretty much the last thing I wanted to see. 

It's worth noting that this is one of the few times in the last several months I've seen the boy sleeping on his back. He's a tummy sleeper, so I knew he must have been sleeping particularly deeply. Waking him — no matter how softly, sweetly and warmly I did it — was not going to be pretty. 

But I tried. I cracked his blinds and let a hint of morning light in. I hit the highest of high notes and softly repeated his name. 

And this is what I got for my efforts: 

A surly, angry little boy who wanted nothing to do with a hint of morning light or soft recitations of his name whispered at a high note. 

No, this boy wanted to be left alone and, in lieu of that, he wanted answers as to why he was awakened. Or perhaps he wanted retribution. I don't know. 

My attempts to assuage him with an onslaught of smiles, raspberries and other sound effects failed miserably. So, I dug deep and went to the peekaboo strategy. 

Sensing my desperation the boy gave me this: 

He leaned toward me and made his anger clear with a firm bellow as a reminder that he, not dad and his phone camera, was in charge. 

I will acknowledge that it might seem insensitive of me to spend any amount of time chronicling my son's frustration instead of expending all efforts to alleviate it. 

What kind of monster takes pictures instead of going to any and all lengths to make his little boy comfortable? Welp, I suppose you could have a point. But, I'd also be willing to bet you don't have a kid. 

Having an upset baby is awful. It's loud. It's frustrating. It's guilt multiplied and squared for good measure. You feel like a bad parent. You feel like you might be letting your kid down so I suppose there's a bit of fear in there too. 

But, before you know it you make the right move, you get one of those bottles you prepared and then your baby settles down like this:

And as he slowly drinks and the sound of his sucking on the bottle becomes the only noise in the room, your blood pressure drops.

You enjoy the silence before speaking to the little guy, reminding him that all is well and that there will always be a bottle there for him whenever he needs it. 

Then as you take the next step toward the day, you get him cleaned and dressed, good vibes begin to abound, the little guy is settling in and you get this:

And all is well. All is right and for a while, you know you're not such a bad parent after all.

The Science of Sleep

At our little guy’s day care the staff keeps a log book.

Inside its pages they chronicle the daily input and output of Master  Blackwell. What time he ate, when his diaper was changed, the diaper’s "status" and how much he’s slept are all penciled in.

Aside from this information, the staff at the day care are so detail oriented that they add notes about what toys the little guy liked playing with and if he smiled and laughed frequently.

Mrs. Blackwell and I are grateful to have all of these facts and it’s a great luxury to pick up the boy and know just about everything we could want to know. Combined, these daily updates serve as a fine record of the little leaps and bounds that make up his march through infancy.

That said, there’s typically one category that has changed very little: sleep.

"My tired eyes led me to believe this was a
ring of vegetable puffs."

We don’t need to glance to this particular part of the page simply because the story is always the same. Sure, it might be written every day and there might be new words used to describe it but really, they could start using a photocopier.

That’s because the boy doesn’t sleep. 

There have been days in which he’s managed to get 50 minutes or about that. But most days there is either no sleep, or 15 minutes here and 25 minutes there.

Now, I’ll preface all that follows by saying that the day care folks are fantastic and they make every effort to ensure he sleeps. He has the same opportunity as every other kid in the room to nap, maybe more. Those kids choose to nap. My son chooses to not.

While picking up my son's log book I noticed the open books of the other kids sitting next to his. To a fault, each of these kids sleep. 80 minutes here. 75 minutes there. 85 minutes again. 

We’re told that while the other kids are sleeping junior is well behaved, quiet, reserved and in general a non-disruptive presence. That’s good. 

If he was a threat to wake all the other kids up during nap time, I can’t imagine the staff allowing him back in the building.

So, with a few 15 to 25 minute exceptions, he doesn’t have afternoon naps at Day Care.

All of this said, I'm not sure what this means, if anything.

Would it be nice if he took two 90-minute naps every day? Absolutely. We are all repeatedly reminded of how important sleep is, doubly so for babies. So fragile and malleable, babies need the perfect set of conditions in which to grow strong and thrive. We are building the foundation of a life here and, after food, sleep is the most important physical imperative.  

Failure of an adult to sleep enough means you fall asleep at your desk. But the failure of a baby to sleep enough? Well, you might as well hide the kid from daylight and fit them for a dunce cap or a prison jump suit because there's just no hope. 

"Little Jimmy didn't get enough sleep? Well that explains why he used petrified Play-Doh to make a shiv." 

In my neverending quest to run contrary to popular opinion (or merely grow comfortable with the things I can't change, whichever you prefer) I am going ahead and calling BS on this age-old axiom.

Pictured: sleep-deprived baby, age ten. 

All told, our boy gets a solid 12-13 hours of sleep per day, including one 90 minute nap and one long sleep. Conventional recommendations vary but most hover around two 90-minute naps and one 11 hour stretch for a kid his age — he's ten months old now by the way. So, we're one hour and one nap below the recommended total.

What will the cumulative effect of this be on Junior? 

Will he stink at Math? Given that I'm his dad, he probably already does. Will he be given to bouts of flightiness? "Paging Mrs. Blackwell. I repeat, paging Mrs. Blackwell." Will he be one of those easily-frustrated folks with the attention span of a housefly? 

What were we just talking about?

What we've got going for us is that the boy goes to sleep every night at about the same time and wakes up at about the same time too. Occasionally he needs a middle-of-the-night feeding but most of the time, he's a straight shot from night till morning. 

So, maybe he's not into sleeping. He's no conformist, he's an innovator. His innovation? The consistent baby.

The (In)Consolable Cries

It's the firm belief of Mrs. Blackwell and I that we have a decidedly happy baby boy on our hands. While he's still unable to confirm this in his own words, we remain confident in this assessment. 

The boy smiles frequently. He appears to enjoy the company of others but does a fine job of staying occupied when there isn't someone by his side (a particularly important point, I think). 

What better place to put a cool appetizing
drink than on the carpet?

He talks — a lot. What he says, we know not, but if tone counts for anything it's fair to say that he's interested and likes to share his interests. Thus far, whatever might be on the couch or the family room table are highest on his list of concerns. 

And so it goes. When he's not occupied with Mrs. Blackwell or myself, he props himself up on a piece of furniture into a standing position and then files along, shuffling his feet until he reaches any object that holds his attention, to keep things interesting this often happens to be a full cup. 

These are the good times and there are many of them. Then there are the other times, like the times when he cries and fusses. Sometimes he has good reason, others he's no reason at all. 

There's the "I'm hungry cry." When I'm hungry, my behavior is often less rational than his so, he gets a pass here. 

There's the "I slipped and fell on my butt and that's never happened before cry." It would appear that the surprise of falling on his butt disrupts him more than it hurts. Not knowing exactly how to handle this, he cries, but never for long. 

Then there's the "I bumped my head" cry. Again I can't say that I handle bumping my head any better than him. If crying was still a reflex for me in this situation, I'd gladly exercise it. Instead, I just swear, unless the boy is in the room in which case I yell "fudge" and "poop" and "Son of a....dear god!" (It's worth noting that searching for these words in lieu of those beautiful four-letter impulse words, only compounds the frustration.)

So, here too, a cry is more than acceptable. And as any parent knows when your child has bumped his or her head, you're too busy beating up yourself for being a terrible parent to actually get frustrated with the kid. 

Then there is the cry without explanation. How can you make something better when you don't know what's wrong?

Simply put, you've got a crying baby on your hands, what now? Welp, I have no idea. No words of wisdom and likely nothing to offer you here — except a slim chance. I do have my own solution and perhaps it might work for you, I make no guarantees. 

Mrs. Blackwell and I stumbled upon this surefire beauty by pure happenstance. Perhaps two to three months ago we noticed that the boy took particular interest in a picture we have hanging in our kitchen.

It's an oblong vertical picture of gerber daisies. While it doesn't rise the standards of high art that some folks require, it's a happy picture and we like it. 

Pictured: High Art (And that's why we've got our 48 x 36 of this
beauty hanging safely in our bedroom.)

Nearly anytime we walk by the picture with the boy in our arms, he smiles or reaches for it. Unless we're in a rush (which only happens Monday through Friday and sometimes on Saturdays and usually on Sunday) we take a moment to let him enjoy the artwork. He giggles and pats the glass.

I'm not sure who thought of it first, regardless, when Master Blackwell began crying for unexplained reasons, he was taken over to the picture.

In short order, his eyes widened, his cries stopped and his mouth drew into a broad smile. 

I don't want jinx this by suggesting it works every time but, seriously, it works every, single time. 

Perhaps you've got your own surefire fix for those iconsolable cries that don't seem to follow any sort of reason. Maybe it's a stuffed animal. Maybe it's a funny face you can make. Maybe you've got the one baby who responds to "Hey, stop crying."

If so, rejoice in your luck (I know I do) and remember what you've no doubt been told by your parents numerous times before: "Enjoy these times because, once they can tell you what's wrong, they never stop."