Don’t be shy. I have yet to meet a mom that doesn’t go batty when someone, anyone, wakes her sleeping baby.
My 1st son was difficult to get to sleep. But, compared to my 2nd son, he was a piece of cake.
2nd boy? He was one of those babies. The ones you have to feed, rock, burp, rock some more, shush, stand up while trying to fake that you’re not actually standing up, bounce, sway, pat the butt, lower him into the bed (while crossing your eyes, biting your tongue, and contorting your arms and back to hold the position), shush, count to 100, pray you don’t breathe too loudly, and hope you don’t accidentally knock your elbow on the crib. Then, if you do breathe too loudly or forget a step– like the patting of the butt– he wakes up and you start all over.
That was me, three times a day.
So you can only imagine how valuable sleep time was when the child actually slept. The process of getting him to sleep completely wore me out.
One day, shortly after going through the motions for his 2pm nap, I sat my exhausted behind on the couch to catch my breath. Not even 5 minutes later? a faint roar and popping sound coming from a dirt bike getting louder and louder as it came closer to my house. My house! With the finicky-barely-asleep-baby who’s bedroom happens to be at the front of the house. The rider did a couple laps in the cul-de-sac (the cul-de-sac where my house is located) then revved off down the street.
My eyes glazed over and I’m pretty sure I had those cartoon steam puff clouds coming out of my ears.
I ran out the front door with the baby monitor in one hand and home phone in the other hand. Cause both are sure to work just fine all the way at the other end of the street… and what I planned to do with the phone? I have no idea. It’s an easy object to throw at a person though. Did I mention I was wearing a pair of old maternity pj pants? Oh yes. They were lime colored with pastel polka dots all over. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t wearing a bra, either.
I stormed down the street (and when I say stormed, I mean, full on stomping with heated passion in every step), arms crossed in front of my chest, fuzzy slippers on my feet, full on looking like a pastel Muppet. As I rounded the corner, about 20 or so houses down the way, I spotted the culprit; continued another 6 or 7 houses (baby monitor and cordless phone were out of range 13 houses ago) and stopped in his front yard.
All he had to do was take one look at me. Then he said,
Oh. I’m sorry. Do you have a baby? Sleeping?
His apologetic tone iced my fiery soul and my shaking began to slow.
He nodded his teenage head and we exchanged looks.
Mine? Don’t ever ride your dirt bike in front of my house ever again between the hours of 9pm-7am, 9am-11am, and 2pm-5pm
His? I’m not going anywhere near that crazy Muppet.
He hasn’t been back since.