Baby’s nighttime awakenings are an ever-changing story

Originally published Dec. 2, 2016, in the Times Herald-Record of Middletown, N.Y.

It doesn’t matter what second, minute or hour. It doesn’t matter if I’ve been sleeping for three hours, or 33 minutes and 42 seconds. It happens. Eyes open to a dark room. Ears open to a baby’s shrill scream.

I’m assigned to one overnight shift. Typically it’s the graveyard, sometime between 2:30 and 4:30 a.m. I sit up in bed and watch. Is the scream isolated? Maybe she’s just repositioning herself. But if it’s a sequence of screams, or continued crying, I’m immediately scooping her from her Rock ’n Play, carrying her to the nursery, setting her on the changing table and undoing her blanket and pajamas.

After the diaper change comes the feed. After a few shifts I’ve realized that it’s smarter to wake up, heat the bottle and turn on the nursery light before scooping her from bed. The bottle is typically breastmilk, but we have used some formula. That’s been our story. Everyone’s is different. Remember that; no story is perfect.

I sit in the rocking chair; it took me two weeks to get the positioning right. I feed for three seconds, remove the bottle, let her breathe — or, typically, begin crying — then bring the bottle back to her mouth. It helps with air flow. She has gas. Almost every baby has gas. Don’t be worried.

Sometimes she’s content and rests leisurely on my chest, upright to my shoulder. Sometimes she cranes her neck and arches backwards in pain. That’s the gas. It’s OK. Soothe her. Help her. Be calm. Don’t be worried.

I gently bounce or rock her to sleep. Sometimes it takes 10 minutes, but that’s rare; typically it takes 25–30 minutes, and maybe there are hiccups in between. I’m perfecting this calming sound of deflating air that I make with my puckered mouth; I compare it to air against ocean waves from a distance. It sounds a little like her white noise machine. Maybe she marries the two. Either way, it seems to work.

Once you find something that works, you run with it. And when that stops working, maybe you tweak. You’re learning. She’s learning. We’re all learning.

When her eyes are closed and her body loosens I lightly dance her to our bedroom. I’m not great at swaddling, and it’s still hard to simultaneously open the blanket and hold Genevieve, so I awaken Sarah to help with that part. She swaddles Genevieve. We hope her eyes are still closed, but frequently they’re not, so another round of gentle bouncing or rocking. There’s a very dark spot next to our closet where it works well. After hopefully 10 minutes, we set Genevieve back in the Rock ’n Play.

Then I carefully creep to my side of the bed, lay back down over the sheets — since it’s much warmer than we’re used to — and slowly close my eyes.

I’ve learned that mornings are slow. I’ve learned that movement is essential, and while she may not love being strapped into a car seat, she’s content riding in the car. I’ve learned that, in public, she’s a perfect lady, and she’ll probably win a couple Tonys for her acting prowess. I’ve learned that she’s alert, strong and — thankfully — healthy.

Most of all, I’ve learned that this is unique, ever changing and the most wonderful ride I could ever take.