The Unquiet Night

A period of relative truce with the Fuss ended in a shrieking, red-faced heap around 3am this morning. The usual drill is he wakes up a few times, is placated and falls back to sleep fairly quickly. For some unknowable reason this particular wakeup escalated to the realm of Opera, starring Fuss as the Caruso of hysterics.

It was a vivid flashback to the Bad Old Days, when inconsolable wailing was the norm and exhaustion our inevitable reward. Except now he's much bigger and thus louder.

We, of course, tried everything. I'd like to paint our exertions in the mature, muted tones of stoic fatalism, along the lines of Rothko's chapel paintings but the reality tended more toward Jackson Pollock working with neon poster paint.

There are many facets of parenting that are simply un-learnable, that you never get better at however many opportunities your child hands you. Like 3am screaming fits, or changing a poopy diaper while they're frantically trying to grab a handful.

You just get through it however you can and hope nobody was grading your performance.