When people suggest that they slept like a baby, you are given to think that they slumbered soundly and deeply, with a look of complete contentment on their faces. If they really slept like a baby, they would wake up with bags under their bloodshot eyes, a brain full of ground chuck, and murder in their hearts.

I know this because I sleep next to one every night (if you can call it sleep) and it is not “restful.” He grunts and tosses, coos and burbles, and emits more natural gas than the Alaska pipeline (as a nice Freudian slip I just wrote “poopline” by accident). In truth I wish that he emitted more because he would sleep more soundly, and then we would all sleep better. Amazingly, after a very active night last night he sits quite alert in his bouncy chair, while I can barely prop my head up.

When there was finally sleep, I dreamed that I was standing in a loft apartment that was literally aloft, and all I could think was how easily the boy could pitch himself over the edge. Even in my dreams I’m child-proofing. And panicking that there’s danger around every corner. Or lack there-of in this case.

In other news, the memorial for my cousin’s son is today. That should be great fun while sleepless. As if it would be otherwise.

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