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.)

The boy is sleeping in his own bed. The boy is sleeping in his own bed. THE BOY. IS SLEEPING. IN HIS OWN BED.

And I’m not even afraid of incurring the wrath of the sleep gods by saying so. Well, mostly not. I may need to sacrifice some stuffed barnyard creature as a precautionary measure, and I am certainly going to be knocking any all things wood-derived and I’m going to keep the victorious fist-pumps to a minimum until we’ve got this sleep thing conquered, but -  let’s all keep our voices down here – I’m pretty sure that we can conquer it, the wrath of the gods notwithstanding.

Because we have a strategy now. We have help.  A lovely woman who goes by the superhero handle of The Sleep Doula offered me advice and assistance and it is working and I am so desperately grateful and thankful and hopeful that I’m pretty sure the happy-beams can seen from space.

That’s all that I’m going to say for now – I’m not so unafraid of the sleep gods that I’m willing to wave my middle finger at them while telling them exactly how we’re managing to do this without their help and chortling  oh hai sleep gods: SUCK IT because, you know, that sort of thing provokes them – but I promise that once we’ve got this sleep thing mostly sorted out – because you know that it’s only ever mostly – I’ll share the story of what we did and how it worked, exactly. (Okay. I might share a few details in the comments, if you ask nicely and you promise to whisper. Quietly. The gods, they have big ears.)

*****

I’m working up to sharing my own ghost/angel/messages-from-beyond story/ies. Because, yes, I have them, but I’ve been shy/embarrassed/emotionally overcome about sharing them. But your stories -and, yes, your counter-stories and reflections on the absence of a beyond – have been such a help to me, such balm for my heart and soul, that I’m no longer afraid to go there. Thank you. (So insufficient, ‘thank you’, but it comes straight from the very deepest part of my heart. THANK YOU.)

*****

This weekend in My Year Of Believing Dangerously: to go to church, or not to go to church? That is the really, really difficult question. Coming up: reading Montaigne, The Little Prince and the tops of cereal boxes.

*****

I wanted to make a joke about Big Swinging Dicks at this post, but it seemed somewhat inappropriate.

I knew that the gods smite for lesser things than overt celebrations of toddlers sleeping through the night. I knew this, and yet I celebrated. And sure enough, the gods, they smote, and Jasper woke and woke and woke again and ended up, once more, attached to my head in the dark hours before the dawn with two hair-clutching fists.

Still. We’ve had one night. There could be more. There will be more.

Next time, though, I’ll have to tell you all in code. And you will all congratulate me in code, and the gods, they will be none the wiser and we will all sleep happily ever after.

I hope. Because I’m really not up for sacrificing a goat. Not that I wouldn’t if I became deranged enough with lack of sleep, but still.

What I wrote the other day? About sleep? Please disregard.

The gods, they were listening, and they did not approve. That, or you all weren’t making the necessary sacrifices on my behalf. Which I understand, sort of, because good sheets (the sleep gods’ preferred object of sacrifice) are a thing to treasure, but still. We’re talking about sleep here, the loss of which is all the more painful after you’ve luxuriated in its sweet embrace for a couple of days (and after you’ve tossed your supply of Ativan, in premature celebration of your reunion with Morpheus and Hypnos who, it turns out, were just in it for a two-night stand, the bastards.)

I am now going into mourning, and, also, am rummaging through the trash to find that bottle of Ativan.

As you were.