I am sure that my lack of posting about sleep issues has lulled you all into the impression that we are actually getting some. Oh how thou art mistaken. In fact, we went from relatively bad to that’s-it-I’m-outta-here over the last couple of weeks, bouncing firmly along rock bottom as we coasted into last weekend on nothing but caffeine fumes and short tempers. Blame it on teething, blame it on ear infections, blame it on the rain in spain falling mainly on the plain, the bottom line is that it is now month 8 and we are still unsure how someone so cute and easy-going can create such prolonged torture. All I know is that it got so bad that I didn’t even recognize the pain anymore. I no longer woke up in the morning tired and wistful, instead I was just glazed. I started to realize how bad it had gotten when I started having mystery stomach aches by lunchtime each day, then finally realized it was from consuming an excessive number of triple grande mochas from Starbucks. I know that given the situation, my subconscious was in the early stages of implementing a plan wherein I could eliminate the trouble of having to lift my arm to drink by being fitted with IV drip, thereby allowing me to conserve what few granules of energy I had left.

Then something strange happened. Two nights ago, was a night like any other: down at 8, up at 11, up at 2, up at 4:30 – which was then, up for the day. Typical. Then, there was last night: down at 8, up at 5:15. Dwuh? Nine. Straight. Hours. Did that really just happen?

But then, this is the part wherein the joy realized from such miracles is inevitably transient: By 5:45 he had barfed an entire bottle of formula all over me, my hair, the bed and the comforter.

And that, children, is the tale of the Miracle on B Street.