Sleepy Time

For the first six or seven months of Silas's barf-infested existence--he had reflux so bad that after the third or fourth time I got spit up on in a given day, I'd just forgo the clothes change and wear it with pride--sleep came in one of three ways: rolling around the Blue Ridge Parkway or a gravel road in the snug comfort of his car seat, swinging in his Fisher-Price chair, or in my arms after a long song and dance routine. He was, it seems, always on the move; that hasn't changed. I was in graduate school then, and I don't know how many times I pulled over to the side of the road after sleep found him, pulled out whatever book I was behind on, and started reading. If I heard a peep, I'd gently slide the gear shift to D and drive around until I thought it was safe to open the book again. But gas isn't cheap, and replacing the swing's 8 D batteries (it could actually simulate weightlessness on its fastest setting) also left the wallet wanting, so most of the time I fired up the CD player and crooned, pathetically but proudly, while shuffling about the room until he dropped off. I learned through trial and error that 80s pop did the trick best. Baby music CDs and traditional lullabies left us both bored, and my attempt at a high and lonesome sound to accompany bluegrass music sounded like cats fighting in an alleyway. No one could sleep through that. One night I even spun something from my very sparse collection of punkish metal, Rage Against the Machine. Three hours later his heart was still beating about 300 times a minute; he is truly born to rage against bed time.

Once a tenuous sleep was finally achieved the true dance began: the cribbing. As often as not, I'd end up just outside his door making all sorts of promises to God I knew I'd never keep as a first lone whimper grew to a crescendo of wailing. Sometimes I didn't even make it out of the door before the water works unleashed a torrent. As soon as I held him against me the crying stopped, and, just a minute or two after I thought I'd "put him down," sounds of "Hungry Like the Wolf" and the shuffle of two exhausted feet mingled again over the hardwood floor.

Then came the experiment. Tough love. Conversing about the shared struggles of parenthood with your peers can be an immense comfort; it's confirmation, I think, that you're not the only one plagued by doubt about your parenting skills. You're not the only one who sucks at this. Relating is nice, but advice from other parents is often about as useful as my nipples (and just how useless they are was a lesson Silas learned slowly, after much biting). A couple of these other parents convinced me that if I told Silas it was bedtime, gently placed him in his crib, and let him cry it out until he finally gave up and dozed off, my bedtime problems would finally be solved...IF I had the resolve not to go in and pick him up for two or three consecutive nights. It came down to a battle of wills. On the first night their kid cried for just 20 minutes before sleep triumphed. Their kid gave in to sleep without a fight the next night. I hate their kid. My kid showed the stamina of Pheidippides running from Marathon to Athens, except there was no symbolic death (i.e. sleeping), and I finally broke down and went to soothe him. Silas had blared demon-possessed screams for an hour and a half. I sought out the darkest recesses of the house and countered his cries with one of our familiar 80s mixes, but I could still hear him. And then the next night: second verse, same as the first. His stubborn cries only subsided when, after another hour and a half of languishing in guilt, I admitted defeat and went to him. I can still feel his tiny chest heaving against the hammer of my heart.

The next night saw an end to the very brief life of the crib. He was back in my bed, and would remain there for the next two and a half years. Even now, it's not uncommon to awaken to Silas's utterance of a single word that says it all, "snuggle," and find him wedging himself under the covers at four a.m. Sometimes I'll wake up in the morning surprised to find him next to me after he's tiptoed noiselessly across the berber and slipped under cover undetected. The music has faded, replaced by a bedtime story (or two, or three), and a long cuddle before he drifts off. Broken and spent, each night I still perform a Houdini-like escape, untangling myself from his clutches, still trying to catch up on reading (only now that reading is most likely to be in the form of a formidable stack of student essays).

Below are a couple of shots of two-year-old Silas, himself looking spent. In the first picture he's scooting around the bed, steering clear of the diaper placed neatly atop his jammies, as I incompetently cajole him to come hither. The most troubling thing about the second picture is not his outfit--boots and a hat and otherwise birthday-suited--but the bloodshot-eyes red digital reading that mocks me; it's 12:01 a.m. and the lights aren't even out yet. Silas's time with me has truly been a sleepy time, but sleepy time always finds him...eventually.

Crack Attack

Conversation with boy (after reading bedtime story and turning off the light):

Silas: Dad?
Dad: What?
Silas: I need to sanitize.
Dad: Why?
Silas: You know that thing you told me not to do?
Dad: What thing?
Silas: Not to scratch in the crack where my poop comes out.
Dad: Uh huh.
Silas: I did that.
(Dad traipses off to the bathroom, returns with sanitizer)

The boy will do anything to forestall bedtime for one more minute.

Heads Up: A Boy is Born

It's coming up on 4 and 1/2 years since life sprang from above a crimson pool on the laminate wood floors of the birthing center, room 4. The incessant coaching to push, the exhausted wailing, was replaced after nearly 24 hours of hard labor, not with sighs of relief, but with the aghast exclamations of the nurses. They cried out in unison, hissing a shrill alarm as the cold shine of the stainless steel surgical scissors extended from my palm. The mouths behind the surgical masks were surely agape. "What's wrong?" I demanded. One nurse regained her composure: "Nothing. Nothing's wrong," she said assuringly. "It's just that they're not supposed to be able to hold their head up like that." As I cut Silas free they explained that newborns can't hold their heads up, but when my boy finally emerged he bent his head upward, wide eyed, and craned his neck to survey his new surroundings. Untethered after two snips--the first one was reluctant--Silas was booked into his bassinette, where the nurses inked and printed his feet after working intently to smooth away the coat of ooze he came out with. Then I had the first contact with my son. Hesitantly--despite his early mastery of head movement, he seemed as tender and breakable as an early spring shoot--I probed him with an outstretched pinky. He latched on; his grip grows ever tighter.

Over these four years and change, I've sketched out a handful of memories of fatherhood, occasionally besting the blinking cursor with something that, if not for its overwrought sentimentality, might resemble readable prose. Intermittently at best (though my child is a daily inspiration, I am no daily blogger) this space will house those sketches that heretofore have remained imprisoned among countless handouts and assignment sheets in "My Documents." And, hopefully, new sketches will emerge in time. I invite my family and friends to indulge me with your readership as I indulge myself in the love of my spirited Silas, my still point of the turning world.

Genesis

In the beginning God created heaven and earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon David, who created this blog.