Sometimes I get really mad at my husband. Like on Saturday. Mr. Buddy had been taking 40 minute naps for a couple of days. This was driving me crazy. Plus it seemed like he would start melting down after being awake for 40 minutes. Hence I was in a 40 minute rhythm with him. Up down. Up down. Up down. I’m lying in bed exhausted Saturday and I say, “Husband, what if I wake Mr. Buddy up a little at 20 minutes and set him back down to help him sleep longer?” Husband says, “No.” “What? You don’t understand my pain! You don’t understand my insanity! You try being home most of the time with Mr. Buddy.”
I try waking Mr. Buddy up a little and putting him back to sleep. Doesn’t work. He’s awake. It’s been like 32 minutes since he went to sleep. I bring Mr. Buddy out.
Husband: “What happened? That was like a 5 minute nap.”
“No.” I snap back. “That was a 40 minute nap. Just like always. You can look at the SNOO log.”
Then I proceed to give Husband the silent treatment. I’m burning up inside with the wrath of the monotony of the week. I don’t even want to stop being a grouch. I want to leave for the afternoon but I can’t think of anything interesting to do so I stay. Sulking outside sounds worse. Then the stroke of brilliance hit. “You are in charge of him for the rest of the weekend!”
“Good. As long as you feed him.”
Now I watch husband, unadulterated by mommy blogs and Facebook groups that warm about the dangers of overtired babies and the utmost importance of following the wake time you know works even if the baby doesn’t seem tired yet, I watch him keep Mr. Buddy up for an hour and a half. Then he lays MB down and MB closes his eyes and sleeps.