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Very Superstitious

Abby 'Lopey bed?

Abby 'Lopey bed?

Tonight was the first night of Hanukkah, and I was all uber-proud of the shopping I had done when I realized, just as we were about to light the candles, that all the presents were for Penelope. Not a one for Abby. Can you believe it? I mean, what’s going on in my head? Am I just like “oh, get presents for the one who’s got a chance of remembering and/or noticing?” Or is there just not much to give Abby at this point beyond, you know, the sweat of my brow?

I blame the lack of sleep. The teeth have not been causing her pain, but her sleep has been weird. I have a vague memory, from Penny’s first teeth, that something developmental happens concurrent with the whole dental thingy, so that even if the kid’s not in pain, she’s going through some other stuff. Have you guys heard of that?

Anyway, last night I went to get into bed as usual, taking her with me so she could nurse and then go into the co-sleeper. But when she nursed, she woke up like a shot and was grinning her gummy little grin at me, throwing her arms around and kicking, and reaching over to grab my hair or my face or my shirt in a sort of hey-buddy gesture.

It was quite heart-melting. I mean, how can I resist, right? But I found that as we lay together in the dim bedside light, I would drift off to sleep, only to be awakened by a grunt and a good-natured punch in the nose. After a while, I worried that I was keeping her up with my big familiar face, so I turned off the light, figuring she’d drift off when there was less to look at. No dice. She sat there giggling into the ether, gurgling and chortling and generally enjoying herself.

At 1am, my husband came padding in (he had been on the computer). “She’s so cute,” I said. “But you have to sleep,” he told me, picking her up and taking her out to the living room. I vaguely woke at 3am, when he brought her back, asleep, and I swaddled her in the co-sleeper, figuring she’d sack out.

Ha-ha, she said, in her own infanty fashion. She was  up at 5am looking for a snack, then again at 8. Penny, on the other hand, slept till 8:30. When I realized how late it was, I poked my head into her room, worried that something was wrong, just as she sleepily sat up and pointed at the rocking chair. “Abby seat. Diaper change. Hi Mommy! Happy to see you!”

I had a busy day today morning haircut, afternoon job interview (turned out to be not as great as I’d hoped, kind of a let-down, but at least my hair’s done), but my husband reported that she was alert and excited about everything on the playground and everyone she saw. Right now she’s out, as always, and I’ll be toddling off to bed as soon as I post this, so one hopes we’ll both have a good night’s sleep…

Now that I think about it, she was having some trouble early last week, a couple nights she just woke up more often than usual, and I realized that I get very superstitious. Like, after two nights of lots of waking up, I decided it was because she wasn’t in feety pajamas, and I made sure to put her in feety pajamas right after dinner. Specific ones. Unfeety pajamas with socks would not do. And I remember specifically that at least one night after I instituted this rule, she still had trouble sleeping, but I stuck with it anyway because I had to have some kind of control!

For the record, this is a house where my husband wouldn’t shave during the playoffs and then the world series, in solidarity with cham-peen pitcher Brian Wilson. Sports fans are superstitious. Sports players are superstitious. Jews are superstitious. Wow, it is really hard to type “superstitious” when you are tired. There are a lot of T’s and… never mind. Anyway, we haven’t wavered from the footy pajamas rule, so I hope last night was just an aberration… or else I’m going to make my husband grow a sleep beard. Till she’s 20. Like Rip Van Winkle! Only the opposite and only at night.

Hm. I might be delirious.

Do you fall back on superstitious claptrap in a sad, sad effort to pretend you’re in some kind of control? Go on, admit it. We’re all friends here.

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