Sugar baby

Dan has had a few bad nights with crying jags and lots of night waking and nursing. Our current theory is that the days are longer and his internal clock is confused. But, really, who the heck knows? Last night, he did sleep from 9 p.m. to 4 a.m. then again from 4ish to 7 a.m. Jim took him downstairs, fed him breakfast and Dan went back to sleep at 8:30 until 10:00. All this after a night where he was wide awake and active until 11:00, then up every hour and a half after that.

Dan has been very active lately. This evening, he "talked" to us for about an hour straight. He just went on and on and on, gurgling, shouting, shrieking in delight, clapping his hands, rolling over, trying to crawl, trying to climb over Jim. And this was at around 9:30 p.m. I'd hate to see this kid on sugar.

He finally fell asleep around 10:00 and we made the transfer from our bed to his crib. About a half hour later, I checked on him and turned on his white noise machine. He started to scream. Jim then tells me that when he's turned the machine on the past few nights, Dan would wake up screaming. Thanks ... important info I could have used BEFORE going to check on him.

I do check on him often during the night. After work, I climb the stairs to his room, peek in and put my hand on his back to feel him breathing. At first, all I can feel and hear is my own heartbeat and a small, panicky voice in my head asking, "Is he breathing?" Then I exhale as I feel the steady rise and fall of his body. It's one of those irrational mom fears. But Jim does know someone whose baby died of SIDS a few months ago. It crosses my mind every once in a while, as it probably does other moms.

Three nights a week, I am paid to read about politics, crime, corruption, death, war and lately pregnant women and children being killed or hurt. And of course, the soldiers, who are and always will be somebody's child. There hardly seems to be good news these days. When I come home on Saturday nights, I feel relieved. The next four days I'm in a cocoon, taking care of our son, watching him learn and grow, being with my family. Yet I know that deeply painful experiences exist, like that of a mother whose son was killed in Iraq. When she learned of his death she said "my heart flew out of my chest." When I read that, it left me breathless for a second, and then I felt fragile, like my own heart could fly out of my chest with one twist of fate.