Dave and I are not morning people.  That was a nice thing to have in common pre-baby, but it’s a total liability now.  When our daughter’s cries shatter the silence at dawn, we bury our faces in our pillows and try to imagine she belongs to the family next door.

Since nobody likes to negotiate before coffee, Dave and I made a standing arrangement long ago: Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, he wakes up with Viv.  Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays and Sundays, it’s my turn.   Clearly, he has a better agent than I do.

I know Dave’s the one commuting to work and putting in long hours, and he doesn’t have the option of napping when the baby naps like I do, but I’m still bitterly jealous of his weekend sleep.  The worst is when he sacks out til noon, conveniently waking the moment I’ve put Viv down for her nap, then complains to me,”I’m so tired.”  It’s amazing we’re still together.

This past weekend, my mom was in town, so I had help and company, and it was a good time for Dave to really go for it on the sleep, guilt-free.  And go for it he did, emerging from our bedroom on Sunday at 3:30 in the afternoon.  WTF?   Who sleeps till 3:30p besides hookers and teenagers?  This time, I was not just annoyed.  I was concerned.  Was he sick?  Depressed?  On drugs?

He waved off my questions and thanked me for letting him sleep, then reminded me that the next day was President’s Day – meaning my Monday was falling on a holiday and for once I could sleep as long as I liked.  That was all well and good, but I couldn’t imagine I’d make it past 10a.  Viv had conditioned me to live on less.   I didn’t think I could go the distance.

Monday morning, or should I say afternoon, I rolled over to check the clock and found that it was 2:30p.  Whoah.  So that’s what two years of sleep deprivation does to a person.   I’m starting to understand Dave’s process.

Want to know how to sleep like a teenager?  Have a baby.  Then get someone else to watch the baby.

Sweet dreams.