Living After Midnight

For some reason, Jane can't seem to settle down in the wee small hours of the morning. I still stand by my claim that she's a better sleeper than her brother was. She sleeps through most of the day with no problem (and is apparently unmoved by drums, trucks, Samson's cries of "Strike up the band!" and other household noises).

And even when she's awake in the middle of the night, she doesn't make a whole lot of noise about it. This is not to say she's demure when she's hungry or has gas, but by and large she's just not a noisy baby. Which is good, because we definitely don't need both kids up at 4 in the morning.

At the same time, there's something a little unsettling about looking down at this peaceful little bundle and seeing those blue eyes staring intently back at me. This morning, as I walked around the house with her, rocking and shushing and talking to her, I'd catch her eyes closing every once in a while. But just when I thought it was safe to sit down with her, they'd snap back open as if to say: "I'm watching you. Back to work..."

This is a terrible analogy, but I can't think of a better one. So here goes: You know how in horror movies, there's always a scene where the star/hero thinks he has defeated the bad guy/monster? And then there are those few seconds of cautious joy mixed with sheer exhaustion. But then you get the close-up of a hand or an eye or something, and it moves, and you know it's starting up again.

It's kind of like that. Without the hockey mask, of course.

The one thing, apparently, that helps Sweet Jane get to sleep when she just can't settle is the sound of the hairdryer.

I've heard of this type of thing before, but running anything louder than a toaster for baby Samson sent him into fits of terror, so I was pretty surprised to see Jane's eyelids get droopy once that high-pitched whine started.

Makes me wonder if we shouldn't have gotten this instead of the rocking chair for her room.