Trouble Sleeping

Charlie continues to wake up at the same time every morning, between 6am and 6:30am, but his going down time has slowly been edging up from 7pm to 9pm. Last night he didn't sleep well at all. It was sort of my fault.

As I have mentioned before, Jill and I made the decision to lock Charlie up at night to sleep and then let him out in the morning. It's called a crib tent, but it's basically a jail cell. The tent is made of mesh fabric which slips underneath his crib mattress, covers the crib rails and forms a dome over the top of the crib which is supported by two flexible tent rods. The zipper opening can only be accessed from the outside. It sounds terrible, but it is not. Because Charlie's physical development has outpaced his mental reasoning, it has kept him from serious injury. He can't climb out and hurt himself. And it has kept him from wandering into our room during the middle of the night.

So last night before I went to bed, I got the parental urge to go in and check in on him. But I had to be careful. A jet plane could graze our roof on its way to Centennial airport. They often do. They don't wake Charlie. But the slightest cajoling of a door handle spring, a cough, or the cell phone vibrating on the table will trigger all his senses. As such, I have had to become a super stealth when entering his bedroom. Precautionary measures start in the hallway where bare feet are unforgiving. Soft soled shoes are best when over the hardwood. They disperse the weight more evenly and absorb more of the energy. But the shoes must come off before the carpet. They are too much of a tripping risk. Once outside the door, intentional, rhythmic breathing is essential. This is where my training with Maharishi Mahesh Yogi has come in handy. The breathing when turning the door handle is similar to pulling the trigger on a rifle. I exhale and open simultaneously. The nightlight is weaker than a candle, but I've practiced so many times with a blindfold that my feet instinctively know where to fall to avoid the groans of the floor joists and step over the rocking footstool. With the exception of the black uniform and a harness rigged to the ceiling, I could be double for a Mission impossible movie. I made it to the crib without any disturbances.

Through the netting I could see that Charlie's head was covered by a pillow. I wouldn't have been able to sleep it I would have left it there. I handled the zipper like a bomb detonator, slowly moving the wedge down the slide, unhooking one tiny tooth at a time. Click. Click. Click. I debated the swift tug. It is effective in removing band aids and opening smuggled pop cans in hushed movie theaters, but I dismiss this idea. Not here. It is reckless. Sweat beaded on my forehead. The small of my back dampened. A tickle emerged in my throat. I tried to suppress it by swallowing. I paused. Headlights shone through the cracks in blinds. A box of shadows moved against the far wall as a car entered the cul-de-sac. Bumping music shook the house. Teenagers! Droopy pants! The music stopped. The car door slammed shut. Charlie shifted his leg! I clenched my teeth together. The tickle came back. My eyes watered trying to hold back a cough. Click. Click. Click. A third of the way. I lost it. I cleared my throat. It was minimal. I thought I had contained the sound within my armpit. But enough escaped to wake him.

It is truly amazing how quickly he can sit up. But more unbelievable was how fast I hit floor.

I sprawled out over the carpet, making myself as low to the ground as possible. All I could think about was if he saw me. Then he told me.

"I see him." Charlie said. I thought he might have been dreaming. Maybe he was imagining the night-dwelling aye-aye at the zoo in the darkened exhibit. This was all he said.

Quiet fell again. I sort of felt proud being able to outwit my not quite two year old son. But I had made a critical error. He realized it before I did.

"Leave it open!" Charlie shouted. His tone hardened. He was no longer in a dreamlike state.

"Leave what open?" I thought.

"Leave open! Zipper!"

It was then the image of the unzipped tent flap came to my mind and Charlie's eyes peering out through it into the dark, probing the room for the source of the tent breach. He must have felt the zipper, he knew the warmth must have come from a hand. He had a fifty fifty chance of guessing whose hand it was. He got it wrong.

"Mommy!" I could feel my heart thumping in my ears. My palms started to sweat. I desperately tried to return to that place, but it was broken. For Charlie, if something doesn't work, it is broken. If his shirt sleeves are too long, the shirt is broken. If the music is too loud, it is broken. If a particulate clogs the hole in the nipple of the milk bottle and he can't extract any milk, it is broken. My night, Jill's night and Charlie's night was broken.