I am (finally) finding myself enchanted with Stella again. Yes, she is still emotionally volatile, and impatient, and has to be bribed with stickers to keep her cool when getting into tenuous situations at school, but she is also funny, and sweet and we have the most amazing conversations. And, as the ultimate test of trust and confidence, I can leave her alone in a room with Porter and not worry that she will try to staple him to the floor while I am gone.

And, speaking of Cutie Von Cutenstein Porter, although he is not yet crawling, he can scoot and/or roll across the room with amazing adeptness, which is probably another reason I am not as concerned about leaving him alone with his sister – he can practically out-maneuver her. I shudder to think of what I am in for once both of my children move under their own power. I am hoping all of that sibling team building I have been working on doesn’t backfire and have the two of them huddling up against me. I know my children well enough to know that I won’t stand a chance.

As each day goes by, I am finding myself enjoying things a little more. I also find myself growing increasingly nostalgic. Sappily and pathetically nostalgic. Porter is my last baby and, thusly, I have realized that, not only is this the last time I will be experiencing all of this, but so much has gone by already. I was blind-sided with it over the weekend when I was at Rabia & Josh’s wedding reception, and ended up chatting with a woman who had a 6-week old baby boy. And when I say “chatted with” I mean cornered in the living room after my second glass of wine. Poor girl. I’m sure all she wanted to do was breast-feed in peace. I couldn’t help myself. After watching her carry him around in a front-pack all afternoon, snuggled up right against her chest, I couldn’t help but realize that those days have already passed. Porter has graduated to the backpack, and everytime I attempt to carry him in the sling, he spends his entire time craning his neck around to see what his sister is doing. I guess I am finally able to appreciate all that advice about enjoying it while I can because it goes so quickly. Advice that, when heard after the 6th consecutive day of 4 hours sleep, can sound a little hollow.

And so I am appreciating it. Every moment I can. Like when Stella came screetching into the kitchen, à la Tom Cruise in Risky Business, saying, “I know this song! I know this song!” and began boogeying down and singing along.

Apparently, my music collection crosses over with a 3-year-old, and apparently Jack Johnson is the Dylan of the pre-school set.

This household has not known a full night’s sleep in, roughly, 5 months 6 days 13 hours and 5 minutes. Roughly. Okay, there was that one night, where we naively believed we would be lucky enough to have 2 children that slept through the night at freakishly early ages, but we were sadly brought to the reality that it was just Porter’s sick sense of humor. He is cruel that way. We have gone through one rollercoaster ride after another with him in terms of sleep. He’ll start inching towards longer and longer stretches – giving us 4, 5, 6 then 7 hours straight, giving us hope, and rest, and the reckless abandon to go to bed after 10 without the dread of getting up within an hour – only to blindside us with freakishly inconsistent patterns all over again.

The last time he did it I took him to the doctor to see if he had an ear infection. WHY ELSE WOULD HE ALL OF A SUDDEN BE WAKING UP EVERY 2 AND A HALF HOURS? Nope. Nuthin. Unwilling to accept the reality that he would be doing this for no actual reason, we figured it HAD to be that he was teething again. So we started drugging him with regular doses of ibuprofin. Because we are good parents that way. Funny thing about that – still no new teeth.

On Fridays at work, I often get the obligatory, “Hallelujah! Aren’t you glad it’s Friday?” To which, my response is to look at them with absolutely no sense of irony and say, “I have a 6 month old and an almost three year old who never got that memo. To them, the concept of weekends and sleeping in are about as meaningful as a new pack of vacuum cleaner bags.” All weekends have become is a blinding reminder of the fact that we aren’t sleeping in.

Last night was a perfect example of why all four of us can be picked out of a line-up based solely on the dark circles under our eyes:

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8:22pm: Stella to bed.

Sidebar: Stella has gotten into the habit, lately, of coming into our room at un-Godly hours, and requesting to get into bed next to me. In my compromised, sleep-deprived state, I have actually let her do it, and immediately ended up regretting it. Not only do I have to endure her signature snuggling, but I also have carelessly thrown the door wide open to establishing precedent. They say that 2 of anything and you have a collection. Well, when it comes to Stella and routines, it only takes once and it is as though she has been doing it her whole lifetime.

It is for this reason that I take the opportunity during story time to have a lengthy conversation with her as to when is the appropriate time to come get in bed with us. Repeat after me. Middle of the night: not okay. Morning-time: okay.

8:36pm: Stella up. Stalling tactic. Sent straight back to bed.
8:42pm: Porter to bed.
9:05pm: Me to bed.
9:35pm: Steve to bed. (The first time he has been to bed before 11:00pm in weeks.)
11:37pm: Porter up (with me).
12:05am: Porter back to bed.
4:30am: Porter up (with Steve).

Sidebar: Porter’s routine, of late, has been to get up twice, usually the second time being somewhere around 4:30. This is, hands-down, one of the worst times because it brushes up so closely to the first alarm (which is 5:00). Basically, what this boils down to is, whoever gets up with him is pretty much up for the day by 4:30. Not only this, but he is unusually hard to get back to sleep – further clarifying that you are, indeed, up for the day. Eventually he will go back to sleep, but not without a bunch of racket and not usually in under an hour.

5:30am: Porter still up and yelling (not crying). Unable to sleep through it, I intervene.
5:36am: Porter back to bed.
5:37am: Stella up. Wants into bed with us. I hold firm: “Nope. It’s still night time. Back to bed.”
6:05am (still dark outside): Stella’s up again. I cave and let Stella climb into bed next to me.
6:05am – 6:40am: Stella wiggles, and kicks, and pulls hair, and plays with the cat, and eventually goes from a whisper, to a regular voice, to a shrill cackle.
6:40am: Porter’s head pops up over the side of his bassinet.

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Figuring it is unfair that Steve, Stella, Rosie and myself are all in bed together, I bring Porter over to join in the festivities. And so completes a typical night with the Walstons.

One of the biggest things that is different for me being a parent the second time around is having the benefit of perspective. Although nothing will change the fact that we have to suffer through this sleepless insanity, I at least have the ability to see it as finite. I know that, someday, it will end, and that, bizarrely enough, I will be nostalgic for the moments where all of us are piled in bed together at 6:45 on a Sunday morning.