Shh

I'm not really sure when it happened, at some point, Westley stopped being able to sleep anywhere, regardless of noise level. I used to but my little swaddled bug down on the couch (surrounded by a nest of cushions) and walk away for a minute. Lights on, TV on, midday, whatever. The baby would stay asleep, and I'd heave a sigh of relief and get on with my day for a little while.

Now, getting Westley to sleep requires near-silence and relative darkness. I rock him in the small, windowless nursery with the lights off and the door closed, counting to 600 before transferring him to his crib. Once he's out of my arms, I start to move like I'm balancing something heavy and breakable. I watch where I step, hold my breath, tiptoe and whisper. Rob looks up to ask if the baby's asleep, and I put my finger to my lips--shh--our sign for "just put him down, sleeping lightly" (as opposed to the eyes-closed, head to the side face we use to signify "completely out like a trout"). I make as few trips up and down the hall as possible, even if it means not peeing for a while. My toothbrush seems too loud.

It slows me down, and makes me antsy at the same time. Whenever Westley's asleep, I feel like I should be doing all those things that I remember need to be done when he's awake and I'm busy with him. There's a three-column To Do list on my refrigerator; I'd like to be crossing things off it. But after 600 counts in a quiet, dark room, housework and organization and even tidying up seem too noisy and bright. The TV seems thunderously loud, even with the volume set to "barely audible."

I climb in bed, tired and wanting to sleep, but annoyed that there's nothing else I can accomplish without waking the baby. I close my eyes, and think good thoughts for every person I can think of. Occasionally, I'll hear Westley fussing in the dark. "Shh," I say to him. Time to sleep. "Shh."

.....................................