From Bieber to Brando

At around midnight, it started again. The crying of a toddler who can’t sleep. It had happened the night before between 2:30 a.m. and 4:30 a.m. Last night, it started even earlier and lasted even longer. Finny stood awake in his crib from midnight to at least 4:30 in the morning without a clue as to why he’s decided the wee morning hours are the time to party.


He’s not sick as far as I can tell. There are no outward symptoms of illness, although he does have a heavy stream of drool going on these days. So, it has to be one of two culprits, right? Ears or teeth. Again.

At midnight, David went in and attempted a good rocking, but this technique has lost its luster as Finny does not rock to sleep like he did in the old days. So back in the crib he went and cried and cried. I went back in at 2 a.m. and tried talking it out with him, you know man to man.

“Finny,” I reasoned, “What’s wrong? Do your teeth hurt?”

Blank stare.

“Do your ears hurt?”

Blank stare. “Get down! I wanna get down!”

“Well, it’s bed time. You can’t get down. It’s time to sleep.”

“Daddy?”

“Daddy’s sleeping.”

“Pop-pop?”

“Pop-pop’s sleeping.”

“Jane?”

“Jane’s sleeping too. What if Mommy comes in and lays on the floor beside you and we listen to some lullabies?” I left and returned with blanket and pillow to resume my spot from six months earlier on the hardwood floor—why did I want hardwood floors again?

Then, Finny proceeded to talk my ear off like an oblivious airline passenger for the next hour and a half while I feigned sleep. Here’s how the conversation went:

“Fan. Choo-choo. Airplane. Up high. Moon. Stars. Tissa. Blankie. Ba-bye Blankie. Ba-bye Tissa. Milk. Snack. Juiccccce! Cheese. Gramma.”

Then, he counted, “One, two, three, five, six, seven, eight, nine, four.”

Then, he counted again, still preferring for four to follow nine rather than three and discarding the need for ten all together.

Then, he named body parts. “Eyes. Nose. Elbows. Knees.”

When his presentation of words failed to make the impression he had hoped, I watched through squinted eyes as he tried another tactic.

“Uh-oh!” he shouted as he crossed over to the far corner of his crib and dropped his pacifier between the crib and the wall. “Uh-oh! Where’d Tissa go? Where’d Tissa go? Tissa dropped. Wash Tissa.”

When that old trick failed to stir the fake slumbering Mommy, he hurled everything in his possession at my defenseless body already aching on the hardwood floor.

“Ba-bye, Blankie! Ba-bye, Pooh! Ba-bye Tigger!” Thank God, I had the foresight not to put him to bed with The Complete Works of Mother Goose.

Then, Justin Bieber made an appearance. You know you are watching too many daytime TV talk shows when your twenty-month-old knows the words to Justin Bieber’s smash hit, “Baby.” As I cuddled with Tigger on the floor, Finny started a Bieber dance party in his crib, jumping up and down, singing, “Baby, Baby, Baby, Ohhh!”

That’s where I drew the line. “I love you, Finny. Go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.” And I gathered my things and left.

I’m not sure how long he cried after I left, but this morning, the rasp in his voice indicated that Justin Bieber had been replaced by a young Marlon Brando. Though I’m not sure that Brando had to work himself up quite so much to achieve his trademark whisper.

Oh, please, God of teeth and all things mysterious about the sleeping habits of babies and toddlers, please, please say it is okay for me to dope Finny up on Motrin or Benadryl before bed tonight. Please, please let him save his Bieber concerts for the high chair and the crying for 7 a.m. I may be better prepared to deal with it then and my poor glasses are more likely to survive a little longer if they don’t spend another night glued to my face, beneath my pillow, or under my armpit.