So THIS is What Parenting a Baby is Really Like

I tried so hard to hold my ground last year as Sarah and her mom worked me relentlessly on the topic of Sarah and me having a second child together. I kept saying I was due for a difficult baby (both Jackson and Max were incredibly easy babies and awesome sleepers), and that having two little ones would be exponentially more difficult. They told me I was worrying for nothing, that another child would probably be just as cooperative as Max, that it was critical we give him a playmate--preferably a girl.

Guess who turned out to be right? 

I realize it's early, and once things settle down I can draw new conclusions…but so far, the verdict is in, and William is definitely a "fussy" baby. Six weeks in, and he has yet to sleep more than 3 hours in a row, and even that's quite rare.  It's too early to declare him colicky--we're both holding out hope that his fussiness will subside over the next week or two. As it stands now, Sarah spends most nights up and down, up and down, generously allowing me to sleep because when morning comes, Max will be my responsibility. Then, most days, William fusses throughout the day, falling asleep for brief moments in our arms and then awakening again as soon as we try to put him down.

For 15 years, I've wondered what other parents were doing wrong that was preventing their children--and them--from sleeping consistently.  For 15 years, I've been thankful that I wasn't being subjected to the kind of exhaustion so many parents lament. For 15 years, I've lived in la-la land. Welcome to reality, Tony. Sleepus interruptus has officially arrived in the form of William Oliver, and it's as hard as I'd feared and imagined. Harder, even.

Having a fussy baby and a pre-schooler at the same time has now moved high on my list of things I wouldn't wish on my worst enemies. In fact, I think our approach to jurisprudence needs to be rethought. Never mind prison--I say that when people are convicted of horrible crimes, they should be punished by having to raise a fussy baby and a rebellious pre-schooler for as long as a judge decrees. Believe me, anyone forced to do such penance will be transformed. I know I am.

There is nothing quite so frustrating as spending hours of your life desperately trying to get a baby to sleep--walking, singing, coddling, swaddling, feeding, burning, bouncing, patting--and then, when it seems the little one is down for the count, you try to put him down, oh so gently, so as not to disturb him, only to watch in horror as within seconds he's squirming and whining, and that fantasy of a few quiet moments to lie down in peace goes up in flames.

Yes, these are the times that try men's souls. I'd say they're the times that try women's souls, too, but let's face it--moms are better equipped to deal with fussy babies. The physical and emotional ties that bind baby and mother together enable mom to deal with sleep deprivation and round-the-clock fussiness with more patience and understanding that I could ever muster. Me, I find myself going all Samuel L. Jackson on the little sucker, letting loose with regular choruses of "Please go the fuck to sleep!"

So there you have it--one 46-year-old dad's struggle to cope with a house where sleep is elusive, a pre-schooler demands round-the-clock entertainment and attention, and an exhausted wife walks the house like a zombie wondering what hit her.

I know it all sounds so good that you wish you could change places with me. Sorry, you'll just have to be satisfied being stuck in your peaceful, sleep-filled, movie-going, restaurant-eating existences. Suckers!

UPDATE (Added after realizing that I posted this in a hurry initially and probably should have saved to finish later):

All kidding aside, the past six weeks have given me some great gifts:

1) I've learned just how much inner strength Sarah has--and it's substantial. The woman is endlessly patient as she spends hour after hour nurturing William no matter how tired she is, or how exhausted her arms are, or how helpless she is to make him feel better.

2) I've also learned how many gassy vegetables there are, as Sarah has become disturbingly dependent on zucchini.

3) I've developed an even greater level of appreciation for the first months I spent with my other, non-gassy, non-fussy children.

4) I've gained new insight into my relationship with my brother by watching the impact William's arrival has had on Max, and the degree to which he's had to give up the spotlight. Greg--it was all a setup! (Not that my brother ever takes the time to actually read my blog.)

5) I've gotten yet another lesson in the power of parental love, as no matter how much William has kept me--and to a much greater extent, Sarah--from getting solid sleep, our hearts melt every time the little bugger manages to work up a smile for either of us.

6) Perhaps most important, William's arrival has injected me with a needed dose of self-reflection, and it may be just the jolt I've needed to put my life in the proper perspective. I believe he's helping me learn to accept the things I haven't been able to do that maybe I wanted to do by now, while appreciating the things that I (we) so often take for granted.

Seriously, though, buddy--that's enough with the gifts. This fussy baby stuff is hard work for an old guy. Let's get to the fun part, hopefully sooner rather than later.