Praise Be!

Oh miracle of miracles! Blessed of all events! Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah!

The boy slept.

I know I may very well be jinxing myself here, but after nearly two years of night wakings, the boy slept. Like from 8 p.m. to 7 p.m. Like without me having to haul my creaky, cranky, hobble-dee-gee ass out of bed to give him a few pats on the back and a comforting "Nigh, nigh." Come on, I need a collective "hell to the yeah" for this one.

How it went down was even more superbly magnificent. I didn't sit in my bed, white-knuckled, listening to him do The Torture Scream for half an hour. He didn't hurl himself out of his bed in a fit of rage over the injustice of bed time. I didn't end up a festering dump of emotional garbage, sobbing on the bathroom floor and crying to the heavens, "Why me?!?" (Trust me, sleep deprivation with no forseeable end in sight will make your world apocalyptic on a good day.)

In fact, there was little fuss.

I pranced and sashayed around the office today like I was Miss Fucking America because, well, I was. I mean, I might as well have been. Little, imp-like publisher who is always full of nonsensical editorial questions started in on one of my stories first thing in the morning, firing 15 questions in a row that were (and I'm not just saying this because I wrote the damn thing), stupid and worthless. I smiled coquettishly, giggled, straightened my make-believe tiara and said, "No problem. Get right to it. By the way, I really think the shirt tucked into your jeans that are pulled up to your nipples is totally working for you. Zexy." La dee da. Nothing can bother me today. I slept for eight hours straight. Doodeedeedoo.

What did I do to finally get a full night's sleep without waking up? Well, you wouldn't believe it, but I eliminated the before-bed bottle. For those of you who have followed my bottle trials and tribulations (along with the sleep ones), you know I've been a sucker from day one (cue post-joke cymbal). When I decided this week was the week, I braced myself. I looked in the cupboard at the two clean bottles and pondered if I should ditch them all or keep one "just in case." Just in case what? Just in case I decided to strap on my granny panties mid-fight and call it a night? Fuck that. After taking a deep breath, I tied them up in a plastic bag and bid them adieu. Goodbye bottles. You've served us well, but your time is officially finito.

As the evening went on (with husband at football game, I was going solo tonight, which can sort of be a blessing in disguise when you're tackling life-changing, schedule-altering humps involving a child...managing his stress over the situation can often times be even more stressful), I found myself glancing nervously at the clock and longing for the tied bag of bottles.

I took a deep breath and dug deep. Must show no fear.

Read him a book, gave him a cup of milk, brushed his teeth, and put him down. He cuddled with his furry buddies, and I kissed him goodnight. I crept out of the dark room, my eyes squinting and body tensing in preparation for the inevitable Scream Heard 'Round the World. The inevitable never came. Nothing. Silence. After 15 minutes, there was a little whimpering that ceased after about two minutes.

Holy shit. That was too easy. It's been so hard in the past. What happened? Did he finally realize that sleep is not his enemy?

Not wanting to question this unfathomable, but fortuiuous, turn of events, I went to take a shower. I giggled like a school girl as I lathered up my hair. I'm not kidding when I say the sound "teeheehee" actually, and literally, came out of my mouth as I thought about my head hitting the pillow.

The last thing I remember is getting my pajamas on, the dirty dishes in the sink that would just have to wait until morning, and my toes wiggling blissfully under the covers.  

Sleep, glorious sleep.