The Boy's fever has finally broken after four consecutive awakenings at 3am. The last time someone awoke so regularly at such an abominable hour, he was days away from fleeing his lake house in Amityville.
As stated in my last post, there is a certain comfort which accompanies a 7-year-old with a twenty-four hour bug: the pyjama day, the movies on the couch, the cuddling, and the subdued quiet.
But, being stirred in the middle of the night these past few days brought back memories of some of the more unpleasant aspects of dealing with this same little creature as a newborn; he was not a good sleeper. I did not miss the intense, unfair grogginess which challenges you as your 4-week-old begins to whimper. I remember opening an eye upon hearing his cry, and praying he would fall back asleep. Please, just give me one full night's sleep...just one.
I also remember being immensely thankful only my wife could breast-feed, thereby allowing me to roll over and dream on.
By 5am, though, it was time my wife had some rest of her own. When The Boy awoke in the 'morning', my wife would feed him once more, then he and I would head into the living room allowing her a couple of hours of peace.
There is not much for a father and his newborn to do at 5am in a living room; he was still an uncoordinated blob, eager for yet more sleep after his recent bellyful.
It was during this period I discovered The Soprano family. I would ensure I had at least two unwatched episodes on DVD ready beside the T.V.
There we would lay, him and me. He, curled in the fetal position - still a fresh part of his muscle memory; me, lying on my back on the sofa rhythmically patting his bum. He had to have his bum patted. Stop patting, he awoke and let you have it. But, a good, steady pat on the diaper, and he was off to wherever a newborn goes when they dream.
While he slept I took advantage of his new, sleepy, uncomprehending mind on my chest, and gleefully watched Tony and his crew whack some douchebags. It was heaven.
This past week, as The Boy stirred once again in the middle of the night, few things had changed: his whimper, while slightly lower in tone, is still instantly recognizable; he still becomes quiet under the gentle pressure of his father's hand (although now he prefers his back, no longer his bum); and I am still as desperate for him to return to dreamland.
The consequences of his seven years are notable, however: if he wakes now, it is a sign of fever, fear, or illness; not of hunger. He evokes more pity, now, as a sick 7-year-old with glassy eyes and red cheeks accentuating his pale skin, and a body temperature leaping past 100°f, than he did as a freshly fed baby.
And, of course, I can no longer drag him onto my chest and soak in Tony's f-bombs and therapist transference.
I don't miss the sleepless cycles of a newborn...but sometimes I do miss the day they shot Big Pussy.
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