Bunker

Poor Diana. After 6 weeks of, at max, 30 seconds of sleep any given night, she was regressing into some kind of prehistoric version of herself. She often times can communicate only with clicks and grunts. Luckily, I know two clicks means "More wine, please." I do enjoy the animal skin loincloth.

So rather than move into the lizard stage, we decided that I would assume the Eli night shift for one night. That way Diana could actually get some REM sleep and I'd have the long holiday weekend to complain about it.

I was a little more than apprehensive. My nighttime contribution to raising the boy until this point has included the rare pop into his room to see if they're doing ok. But mostly because it's on my way to the bathroom.

So Diana helped me by laying out all the necessary items for the long night. Bottles, thermos of hot water, formula, and for some reason a loaded shotgun. She explained it was zombie season.

Diana drifted off to sleep and I laid stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling. What happens if he won’t stop crying? What happens if he gets constipated? What happens if he gets the opposite of constipated?

Well, Eli decided last night was going to be a 3-4 hour sleep cycle, rather than his usual 2 hour. He ate, peed, pooped, slept. Very easy. I feel a little guilty that it wasn’t one of his nightmare nights. But I’m not complaining. Now, to go make my famous zombie soup.