The hardest adjustment, for me, has been waking up. I’m used to waking up and finding that there’s a baby in my apartment every morning (see Day Two — it took a couple days for it to really sink in). My bigger problem is that I am not now nor have I ever been a “morning person.” Ask anyone who’s known me and my sleeping tendencies (so, my mother) and they’ll attest to my unwillingness to wake up and my affinity for snooze buttons.
“Morning person” doesn’t really exclusively apply to mornings either. Any time I wake from a deep sleep — regardless of time of day — I’m not likely to jump out of bed and engage in complex tasks (or even simple tasks, really) as soon as the alarm sounds. My body is just not wired for it, and at this point in my life I’ve stopped fighting it.
With this in mind, when figuring out who’s responsible for what diaper/feeding shift in the night, the earlier time has fallen to me. Now, instead of falling into a deep sleep only to be rattled from it in the middle of the night (and left with a stupor to contend with), I just stay awake for that first late-night feeding.
Last night’s diaper/feeding bonanza was scheduled to take place at 2:00 AM. “No problem,” I thought. “It’s only another hour and a half.”
Imagine my (momentary, admittedly) shock and disdain when the appointed hour arrived and I found that it was now THREE o’clock, not two. “What the hell happened?? I didn’t even doze off this time!”
Yes, that scourge of springtime, Daylight Saving Time, had besieged my otherwise well-thought-out night. “No worries,” I thought. “I’ll just change him, feed him, and still get to bed by quarter after.”
Well Miles’s diaper was not dirty, blessed be the maker. It was also nearly impossible to rouse him from his deep baby slumber (he clearly takes after his dad). I poked, prodded, rubbed, and tickled for nearly 40 minutes before he finally became alert enough to suck down two ounces of formula. “No matter,” I thought. “I can still get to bed before…four? Man, that sucks.”
And then came the poop. And what an unholy barrage it was. Wave upon wave surged forth from Miles’s hindquarters, some runny, some clumpy. Three diapers and 30 minutes later, the storm finally passed.
As I came to bed, far later than I had ever imagined possible, Jaclyn turned to me. In a half-conscious stupor, she asked, “Did you feed the baby at two?”
“No. There was no two o’clock.”
With this in mind, asking me to spring out of bed and feed Miles at 4:00 AM is a tall order. To see this in action, look no further than earlier this week, when I told Jaclyn I couldn’t find the baby only to have her wake me fully and point out that I was actually cradling an armful of my own blankets, Miles still nestled comfortably in his bassinet.