Because sleep is for the weak
My son is 8 days old, and he is Mike Tyson (before he went all crazy-towny). He is Tiger Woods (before he went all public-philandery). He is Roger Clemens (before he went all performance-enhancey, country-singer statutory-rapey, litigationy and generally creep showy). He is the competitor that is so dominant, he has his opponent beat before the poor sucker ever sets foot on the field.
And I am my son’s opponent. Last night the boy was fast asleep at 10 p.m., an hour when he is generally wide awake and squirmy after a tough day of sleep, eating and diaper changes (which he also sleeps through). This was my big chance to get a few hours of sleep and sneak a win on the undisputed champion that is my infant son.
But I didn’t. He had me so psyched out that I didn’t sleep a wink. I kept waiting for the piercing shriek that means either “I’m hungry,” “I’m scared,” I’m need my diaper changed,” “What parent could in good conscience dress their son in baby lamb jammies?” “Nothing really, just wanted to make sure you remembered that I’m still in charge,” or any degree of etc. And I was still awake when it finally came, about four hours after I first laid down to try to get some sleep. Another first-round KO for Tyson.