"Everything seems fine." Said the doctor, smiling at Oliver who was perched on the examination table tearing up the paper sheet and shoving the pieces into his mouth delightedly.
"Great." I said, beaming.
"And, he's sleeping through the night?" She said, nodding expectantly, as though this was a given.
"Um. No. Not even close." I said somewhat amused by the very thought.
"Oh. Oh! And he's nine months? Oh." She scribbled something on her pad. "So he gets up, what, once per night?"
"More like three or four times." I winced, recounting last night's bleary-eyed crib visits.
"Oh. You must be tired." She said eyeing me.
What is it that gave me away doc? The dark circles under my eyes or the fact that my sweater is on back to front?
"Yes. I'm very tired."
In fact, while you're here, would you mind holding my baby while I just lay down on this examination table so I can catch a few winks?
"Time to do sleep training." She said firmly, writing something else on her pad. I wondered if she was writing out instructions for me.
"Because you're tired, I can see. And you can't carry on like this, especially with two young kids to look after."
That was when I leaped up and roared "I'M TIRED WOMAN, NOT INCOMPETENT! I'VE DONE SLEEP TRAINING AND IT DIDN'T WORK DAMMIT! OKAY, HONESTLY, IT MIGHT HAVE WORKED BUT I WIMPED OUT... BUT ANYWAY, WHO THE HELL ARE YOU TO TELL ME WHAT TO DO? ROAR."
Okay I didn't roar any of that. Obviously. I'm British after all.
I nodded in agreement.
Because my doctor was right. Her words, though obvious, simple, were true. I have resisted sleep training, but now I need to sleep. Tonight. So that I can rejoin the land of conscious, alert people.
So, wish me luck as I embark on sleep training round II. For reals.
And then I promise to stop banging on about how tired I am and write about something else.