At home I am known as Somnambular, because I’m usually able to get my son off to sleep in no time flat. After his bath and his book, we repair to the rocking chair. A few lullaby verses, a couple of strokes of the back, and he’s out, flat as a flounder.
Somnambular failed for the first time last night — an alarming precedent. Robert took forever before he finally dropped off, and he slept fitfully and intermittently all night, immune to whatever soporific powers I could muster. We haven’t yet figured out why, but we think it’s because his canine teeth are coming in, and friends with older children tell us that canines can be real bitches.
We all woke up this morning, perhaps with 10 hours of sleep among us. Aside from baggy eyelids, Robert seemed as jovial as always in the morning. But it was my worst night in months, and it showed. My wife and I had a fight that hinged on my inherent distaste for flexibility, and I behaved like a pathetic, self-absorbed jackass. Try as I might to be Super Benevolent Wonder Dad, a little sleep deprivation always exposes my inner thug.
