Thursday, December 3, 2009


The one on one parenting (I’m not using “Man To Man” anymore because it’s probably copyrighted and I can’t afford to get sued) is working out great. For me. For one, I get to spend all day every day with the greatest two and a half year old in the world. For two, the greatest two and a half year old in the word sleeps twelve hours every night.

So when I get emails saying, “Oh man. I feel for you. It must be hard.” I think, “Yeah. I think I’m getting bed sores.”

That leaves Diana and Luca to duke it out every night downstairs in the Luca Suite. I’m not sure I’ve mentioned it, but for the first month or two we’re sleeping in separate rooms. Diana, downstairs with easier access to the bathroom and baby gear and me upstairs with easier access to our comfortable bed.

Fortunately, Luca’s still in his sleepy stage, so he mostly chirps when he’s hungry instead of screams. But he’s only 8 days old. So he needs to eat every 2 hours.

Diana has been doing great, but the lack of sleep is starting to wear on her. So last night, she suggested we swap duties. She’d take Elijah (sleep) and I’d take Luca.

I scrambled. “Well…well you have to feed him breast milk. I don’t have breast milk.”

“I pumped. You have enough for the night.”

“Well…well Eli specifically asked for me.”

(To Eli) “Do you want mommy or daddy to wake up with you tomorrow?”


Traitor. I actually wasn’t too bummed out about it. I don’t think I’ve been having the true infant experience as of yet. The prospect of a sleepless night somehow felt authentic.

At 11pm, I set out the bottles and pacifiers and wipes and TV remote (I was planning on catching up on the in-trouble Obama administration as reported by “The Daily Show.” Then I laid down in the Luca Suite.

I immediately started to write today’s blog in my head. “Sharing a room with Luca is like trying to sleep with a hamster…”

But then I heard crying from upstairs. Really hard crying. I ran upstairs and saw Diana comforting Eli. And then the smell hit me. Puke.

Apparently, when last night’s recipe called for “medium rare steak,” I misread it as “medium rancid steak.” While Diana and my wine-lined stomachs could handle it, Eli got a case of the barfs.

So every two hours when I woke up to feed a contented, barely meowing Luca, I could hear Eli upstairs working out the devil. And poor Diana comforting him. She got less sleep than I did.

We’re going to try it again tonight in the vain hope Diana will get an actual night sleep. Although I assume Eli will come down with 24 hour Chicken Pox.

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