memo

To: Benjamin
Re: Sleep

Your dad and I slept three hours last night. Four tops. We are exhausted, and you are too. Yet you still refuse to go to sleep. I rock you, feed you, change you, rock you, feed you, change you, over and over again for hours until I collapse exhausted into the bed, leaving you in the crib red-faced and screaming at the top of your lungs. Then your dad takes you. You’re not sick; I checked your temperature. You’re not hot or cold either. You don’t seem to be teething. You just don’t want to sleep. This morning, we decided to take you for a ride. On our way to the car, a strange Russian woman in a jogging suit was plucking loquats from the tree in front of our building. “I need something to keep my mouth from getting dry,” she said. We drove for forty minutes and you fell asleep. However, the minute we pulled up to our apartment, you awoke. We were not surprised.
Benjamin, it was at this point, after much deliberation, that we decided we are going to let you cry it out. We will be determined and steadfast, and we will probably cry with you. But eventually you will go to sleep, and it will be a miracle. One day, Benjamin, you will have a baby too. And I hope he screams. I hope he screams to holy hell.