We put Michael Alexander to sleep at 9 last night. He fell asleep about a half hour later and slept until about 6 this morning, just after Mike left for the gym.
Mike and I went to bed about two hours after our son and slept through the news alerts and press conference.
Ingrained superstition (my mother and her parents were born in Russia) makes it tough to write this, but I think we've solved the sleep problem. (Gasp.) Most nights, Michael Alexander had been waking at 11 or midnight, then again around 3 and again around 5 and 6. It might have been our fault. He had been sleeping in our room and we comforted, even fed (a practice his doctor condemns) him each time he woke, bringing him in our bed to snuggle. Often we'd just stare at him, admiring the way he pushes each of us closer to each edge of our queen size bed. Other times, we'd wake him with the slightest movement. As much as Mike and I love to cuddle with our son in the middle of the night, I knew we needed to make a big, grown-up step. Last night we moved his bed into the "living area" of our one-bedroom apartment.
So far, it's been a perfect morning. I slept (or at least rested, uninterrupted aside from the few trips I made to the living area to check on my slumbering son) a solid 7 hours! Michael Alexander rejected the cereal I tried to feed him, but shared my eggs and salsa, eating a real breakfast without protest. Now he's been playing on his own, allowing me a few precious morning minutes to write.
If things go well, it could be a William Blake day: "Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night."
Most days I can't write because I am so tired and all my daytime energy is focused on getting Michael Alexander to eat something besides crackers and keeping him away from household hazards like the stove and toilet. Today I am finding it hard to write because my mind is so clear I can't focus on any single idea. A good problem to have, but one that makes me worry I am just babbling in a state of unexpected energy.
I am forced to focus, though, as Michael Alexander is eager for me to join in his solo play session.
It's fascinating to read today's Facebook posts, some so stupid or self-absorbed I'm inclined to de-friend those posters. Others are funny, pithy or thoughtful, and many reflect on the poster's 9/11 moment.
The decade that's passed since Sept. 11, 2001, has been one of tremendous personal change. It's included the worst of times (the death of my father) and the best of times (my marriage and the birth of my son.)
Only one thing unites these two moments in history -- I slept through both.
On 9/11, I was single and living on the top floor of a walkup on Thompson Street in the Village. My father was in my native Massachusetts, dying of cancer. I was an editor on national desk at AP, working the overnight shift and it was my scheduled night off. I heard the first plane, but ignored it since you hear a lot from the top floor of a walkup. My landline (remember those?) rang and my best friend, Erica, blurted out, "Oh my God, sweetheart! You're OK!" Seconds after I turned on my tiny console TV, the power went out and I quickly threw on the jeans and tank top I was wearing before I went to bed. I was headed east on Houston as the horror became apparent. Survivors covered in soot were running past me, some screaming, some stunned silent, and all looking like statues. I joined the queue for a payphone (remember those?) and waited anxiously for my chance to reach an operator. Most people ahead of me failed, but using a toll-free number I recalled from an ad, I was able to make a collect call to my mother.
I recall the anger, the fear, the rage, the myriad emotions of that moment. My father was dying and now somebody was threatening my right as a (first-generation, on my mother's side) American to live in a country where I was safe from the type of unspeakable violence that wiped out most of my mother's family.
It's strange to revisit those emotions on a day like this, while reveling in the wake of my son's 9-hour rest.
Michael Alexander is calling for "mom-mom." I'm going to try to keep my brain working as I entertain him. My work is play. I don't have to go sit in a cubicle and shut it off.
"The brain is a wonderful organ; it starts working the moment you get up in the morning and does not stop until you get into the office." Robert Frost
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