Two – The way you sleep

Tobias, Eleanor and Callista,

You’ve been two nearly a month now, and I think the fact that I’m writing this letter so late is a fair illustration of life around our home.

You’re busy people. You keep us all on our toes, always trying to stay a step or two ahead of you but more often scrambling to catch up.

Or maybe that’s just me.

I can’t watch you enough. I love the time we spend together, me interacting with you, but since I’m a thinker, dreamer and observer by nature, watching you brings me peace like nothing else. You are wondrous. You pick up on so much, and one of my favorite things is to be surprised by a new word/game/song/dance move.

The way you sleep

Toby, I haven’t yet figured out your sleep “thing,” but the way your hand smells like baby spit after you’ve slept tells me you must sleep with it by your mouth and that you drool. You don’t comfort-suck on anything, but you have a beloved corner of “Bee,” (the name you donned and we all – even your sisters – use for your blanket), and while your pleas to help find that “cohr-nuh” can sometimes be maddening (Kid, there are only four!), they’re mostly endearing. In truth, it’s really the grin and “coh-oh-nuh-uh” that comes out in a relieved chuckle after a desperate search.

You like to be covered with your blanket, but you kick it off or roll away pretty much instantly. I think it’s more of an act of solidarity with your roommates, but who am I to argue?

You probably don’t like a blanket covering you so you can roam freely about your bed. You have a pillow, but like your sisters, you rarely use it. It’s a good thing your crib encloses you because you sleep in motion. You are in a different spot each time I check on you, and you often have your feet or legs propped up on the rails.

You woke mostly every night until you were 19 months old. You instantly signed to nurse when you woke, and despite the negative nancies who insisted you needed that bad habit broken for you, you grew past it on your own, just like we hoped knew you would. You had too much growing to go all night without a snack, and I don’t regret a night of providing that for you.

You’re usually the first to wake, and I hope think you’re starting to make a turn. The number of days you wake as a grump are becoming outnumbered by days you wake happily chattering to yourself, then your sisters as they wake, then finally to calling, “MAma! MAAAAma!” for me when I’m taking too long getting myself ready for the day. You’re quick to greet me with a big kiss and hug before you are off and running with Bee in tow.

Eleanor, your comfort tools for sleep are no secret, and they haven’t changed. You suck the first two fingers of your left hand and either pull at or hold onto your jersey-knit crib sheet. It’s loose enough for you to get a bit in your hand, and you’ve had nothing but jersey sheets on your bed since we noticed the attachment.

You insist on being covered each night. There are some nights that you’ll be in the same position we left you, and I stare at the screen to make sure you’re breathing. Other nights, you toss out every item in your bed and happily sleep in the wide-open space with nothing but your mattress and beloved fitted sheet. You’re always shocked in the morning to see an empty crib and hold your hands up in question, saying, “Oh, no! What happened!?”

You seem to have occasional nightmares, but we’ve not yet been able to confirm that a dream has scared you. All we know is you sometimes wake in sobs and say, “Eleanor sad,” when we scoop you up from your bed. Cuddles and snacks with Daddy or Mommy usually set you up for a quick request to go back to bed.

One of the reasons you and Toby sleep with Callista separating you is because you two wake easily. I think you’d wake each other more (if one of you wakes, the other usually follows – something that hasn’t changed since your NICU days) if your sound-sleeping sister weren’t there to buffer your traveling noises. You’re both restless sleepers, and, like Toby, you seem to sleep all over your bed most nights.

You start chattering the second you wake, and you often start with singing your ABCs or counting (you can basically count to 13 now), and the second I walk in your room, you always have some cheerful greeting. Most often, you say, “Good morning! How you doing!?” And then you’re ready to run.

Callista, you sleep like your daddy. Once you’re out, you’re out. Two crying bookeneds can’t even wake you, which is why you’ve happily slept through the night (99 percent of the time) since you were 5 months old.

You are quite particular about your sleep setup. You want your pillow, a crocheted blanket covering you, your satin-trimmed blanket cuddled in one arm, your stuffed dog in the other, your sooth-n-glow seahorse by your head. You suck your right thumb and rub at the silky edges of your blanket. I have to sometimes squint at the screen to see if I can see a glint of eyes because you rub your blanket edge the same asleep as you do awake.

You wake sometimes in the night and quietly rearrange what I call your nest. You aren’t particular about what goes where during these wakings, but you do pile all your bed things into one spot and then burrow in and fall asleep in a mess of comfort. It’s something that would give new-mother me a heart attack and send me flying in your room, but as long as I can see something twitch, I’ve learned to leave you be.

If you wake first in the morning or during the night, you’re sick. That’s the kind of sleeping champ you are, sweet girl. High fives to you for accomplishing something so many adults (me included) wish they could do.

I’ve been writing a draft of this birthday entry for almost a month, and rater than putting it back on ice until I have time to write more, I’ll write installments. Also? It’s getting long. No one who knows me in person should be surprised by my verbosity. You’re welcome, readers. Being an overtalker is the reason I started this blog in the first place.

To be continued …