Queue up that Rocky III music and sing along if you like... you know the
tune: It's the eye of the tiger, it's the thrill of the fight, rising
up to the challenge of our rival, and the last known survivor stalks
his prey in the night, and he's watching us all with the eyyyyeeee of
the tiger.
(I'll wait a minute for you to finish up the air guitar... uh-huh... mmmhhmm... cool... OK, go ahead and read on.)
Now envision a 32-year-old stay-at-home dad with a slightly — fine,
noticeably — receding hairline, emerging from his one-year-old son's
bedroom. With a bounce and a bob and an empty bottle in his hand,
he starts shadow boxing. Left, left, right. Jab, jab, jab.
That man is I — victorious after an exhausting match with an overtired
little boy who fought and fought and fought, like a game Apollo Creed
to my Rocky Balboa. He was on the ropes since 8 p.m., but didn't
succumb to night-night until more than an hour and a half later.
Whew. In the end, the sobering effects of the large bottle of
formula combined with a sustained strategy of rocking, back rubbing and
lullaby singing overcame his arsenal of tears-and-arm-flailing to send
him to la-la land.
I know you've been in that ring before.
Truthfully, my son is a terrific sleeper. On most nights, he'll
rub his eyes, happily suck down his bottle and gently close his eyes
for the night. My wife and I love those nights. On other
rare occasions, however — when the little guy is visibly tired, yet
ready for a championship bout before bed — look out! My wife
quickly nominates me for the task of getting the boy to sleep, adding
that it's an excellent chance to earn my keep as a stay-at-home dad.
And she's right. It is a chance to earn my keep. Putting a
cranky baby to bed is a real accomplishment and when the task is
complete, I can go to bed knowing that I've earned my good night's
rest. Ahhhh.
But wait. On one recent night, the baby decides that he wants a
rematch — at 2 a.m., of course. The challenge rings out over the
baby monitor. "Daddy, let's get ready to rumble!" is the rough
translation of his baby talk. Something has him screaming like a
stoked-up steam engine and it's my job to calm him down without waking
up the only one of us in this house who must report to work bright and
early in the morning.
When you go to bed around 10 p.m. and wake up around 6 a.m., 2 a.m. is
literally the middle of the night. Not a good time to wake
up. Luckily, I was prepared for this before we had our son.
Our dog, Abby, has a penchant for waking up at odd hours with a full
bladder. Usually it happens in the winter, on the coldest,
cloudless nights and I shuffle outside in pajamas and slippers — ankles
freezing solid in six inches of new snow — while the mutt does her
thing.
So, when the baby cried on this particular night, I was ready. As
soon as I entered the room, though, I saw it: the eye of the
tiger. The boy was wide-eyed and determined not to go back to
sleep. He initiated the contest by rolling around from side to
side, arching his back, and wriggling like a greased pig. Nice
move, I thought. I countered with a belly rub. It had no
effect.
Knowing that there was no chance he'd just cry this one out, I picked
him up out of his crib. He answered back with a staggering combination:
a throat jab followed by the plucking of a hair off my chest.
Owww. Hey, where's the referee?! The boy struggled to get
out of my arms, but to avail. My arms enveloped him and started
to work their magic. After a bit of rocking and soothing, he
eventually settled back to sleep. But, as soon as I placed him
back in the crib — wham — he raged again. This process repeated
itself for about five or six rounds until I finally prevailed.
Now for that good night's sleep I earned...
But not 20 minutes later, over the monitor, another noise. Not
again, I begged. This sounded different, though. Instead of
crying, there was a heavy-breathing, wheezing sound. My wife
awoke, too, and shot out of bed, fearing that the baby was having
breathing problems. As we opened the door, we saw our dog, Abby,
curiously sniffing the monitor. The furry culprit turned around
and seemed to smile at us while, snug in his crib, the little tiger
slept like a champ. Brian Kantz is a stay-at-home dad and writer
living in Amherst, New York. He invites your comments and can be
reached at
Visit his website at www.briankantz.com.
