In a Whisper and a Scream

The following was originally posted August 22, 2009, at http://www.parentclick.com/BlogPost.html?id=1239:

Here's a lesson I learned this past week: listen carefully. Even if your baby can't talk, they still might have something to say to you.

Learned this lesson the hard way, let me tell you.

Since he was born in January, Mason has slept in our room, in a cradle with one of those removable car seat/carrier things that Crystal calls a "punkin seat" inside it (BTW, the point of the seat is two-fold: being inclined rather than laying flat helped alleviate the rather nasty case of reflux Mason suffered from early on, and also supposedly reduces the risk of SIDS).

This arrangement works well for all of us: he's right next to the bed, making a shorter trip than going to his room for late-night feedings, and we have more control over whether he wakes up the older kids, and we don't have the temptation to let him sleep in our bed when he does wake up. Plus Mason seems to like it.

We had settled into a pretty consistent routine: Mason didn't always sleep through the night, but he was more or less on a schedule, waking up once between 4:00 and 4:30 in the morning, feeding, and going right back to sleep.

About a week ago, this all changed. Mason stirred several times, starting at midnight, then 1:00, then 2:00, then 3:00. By 3:30, you can imagine, we were already getting pretty tired of...getting tired, and it was only getting worse. He was rather insistent that we pick him up, screaming, kicking, arching his back and trying to twist himself out of his seat.

We ended up taking turns trying to soothe him, but neither of us slept well. We speculated:

Was he sick? He didn't have any outward symptoms.

Gassy? A little, but no more than usual.

Hungry? He ate, but still screamed.

The same thing happened the next night. And the next. And the next.

Soon the week turned over, and Mason's restlessness continued. It didn't bother him too much; after all, he has all the day to make up for lost sleep. Crystal and I have only that agonizingly small window between 10:00 p.m. and 6:30 a.m. to catch our winks.

But with Mason playing an all-night game of Red Rover, and Mason was sending psychosis right over. The both of us were quickly turning into two quivering masses of Jell-O, complete with fruit cocktail for brains.

We were fading fast, and quickly reaching end of our rope, which was fraying ever so quickly. It's hard to remember whether it was the fifth or sixth straight night we were facing little or no sleep that I grumped "just put him in his crib!"

Crystal shook her head. A lock of hair fell over her eyes as she held Mason in the dark, bouncing him in her arms while he struggled and wailed. "The last thing we need is for him to wake up Jenna."

So instead I went downstairs for another bottle. It was about 1:00, and I wasn't exactly looking forward to another night of intermittent, random crying at all points of the night. I was ready to give up, just stay downstairs and sleep on the couch. Just anything for a few moments of peace.

I sat down on the couch holding the warm bottle and contemplated, before sighing and going back upstairs. Maybe we can take turns sleeping downstairs, I thought.

But when I reached the top stairs, there was something new, a new sound that wasn't quite the same blood-curdling screams I headed downstairs to.

This was something else. Something strange. Something...silent.

He wasn't crying. I went into our room, and Crystal was laying on the bed.

"That's what he wanted," Crystal said. "I laid him in his crib and he went right to sleep.

I could hardly believe it. I crept into his room and caught the sound of one of his toys, a stuffed seahorse that plays lullabies and glows, plinking out "Mockingbird." Mason was still on top of his clean sheets, his eyelids closed, head cocked to one side. His chest rose and fell steadily, calmly and the seahorse began a new song.

Who'd have thought he was telling us he was ready to grow up? Only seven months old, and he's taking charge of his life, letting us know he's ready for the next step, in as gentle a way as he knows how (which is to say like a sledgehammer), not to worry, that he'll be okay. He can handle it, and we need to give him his space, and he has to grow up sometime.

Yes, all of those things, contained in one single, nonstop, unrelenting scream. He was saying all of those things.

But mostly he was saying "let me out of this damned seat! I'm sleepy!"