I’m not even going to joke about the gods any more. They clearly regard my ambitions to master sleep as akin to donning wings and taking aim at the sun, and every time I speak out loud about those ambitions they smite me. Pride, apparently, really does goeth before a fall, and seeing as the falls that I’m having don’t actually result in anyone losing consciousness, the divine smackdowns for prideful reporting of sleep victories are getting kind of frustrating.
That said, f*ck the gods.
Last night the battle for sleep was hard, but it wasn’t lost. The sleep gods might have tossed their spears into Jasper’s crib – and prodded him to yell and holler and fling binkies and bottles – but we were still able to keep him from escalating his temper tantrum into tears and upset, and we were still able to keep him in that crib. And so although we ended the night collapsed upon the floor, our carefully-stitched wings of sleep-mastery ambition in tatters around us, we did make it through the night and we woke to find Jasper sleeping – the very picture of tranquility – in his crib. IN HIS CRIB.
Icarus flew toward the sun. We’re just aiming for the moon or the stars or whatever heavenly body governs the movements of sleep, and I know that we will get there.
And the gods can just get the f*ck out of our way.
(The discussion about sleep strategies is still raging – not literally, as we’re all too tired to rage about anything – at my last post, so check there for discussion about how, exactly, we’re going to get our sleep wings working and win the battle and the war and mix even more classical metaphors.)