NO. SLEEP. 'TILL BROOKLYN!

I swear I could hear MeMo chanting this chorus from an early Beastie Boys song from her crib at 3:00 this morning. Last night was what I like to call a "Newborn Night", where our little MeMo decides, for whatever impossible-to-determine reason, that she must regularly check in to make sure that Joe and I haven't up and abandoned her in the middle of the night.

MeMo has always been a great sleeper. As a newborn, we actually had to wake her up to eat, and now at 11 months old, she takes 4 - 6 hours worth of naps during the day and sleeps up to 13 consecutive hours at night. That being said, I guess I have no real reason to complain, but when a night like this creeps in it's like dropping a colicky baby on a bachelor, we feel completely unprepared.

The most difficult aspect of sleep disturbed nights (aside from wanting to hurl yourself off a bridge the next morning when the alarm sounds), is that MeMo is still speechless (well of a language that I can understand anyway). And so it is impossible to know what is keeping her awake or to get her what she needs to go back to sleep. Because she is such a solid and sound sleeper, there is always a reason for her disruption though, and it's just a matter of figuring it out (or giving up and putting the kid on the deck and hoping she's still there in the morning).

Last night went something like this:

10:00 pm: At a very critical point in the second-to-last episode of The Sopranos (recorded on DVD), the Meemers cries out. Joe and I glance at one another. Was that the baby or just a neighborhood cat being skinned alive?

10:00:07 pm: It was the baby. I head upstairs, received by her heightened cry. I break the golden rule and lift our baby girl from her crib. This does nothing to console her so I take her to the changer and swap out her soaked diaper for a new one. Joe brings me a full bottle.

10:21 pm: MeMo is sound asleep. Returning downstairs, we attempt to hit play on the DVD player only to realize that we've been punished by the technology gods. The damn thing is broken! Right when Tony's crew is systematically being wacked! This can't be! After multiple trials of wiping off the DVD, testing out the player with another disc and turning it on and off over a hundred times, we give up and retire to bed.

12:19 am: The Meemers cries out a second time, disturbing my dream racing down a giant ski slope - perhaps in the Andes. Was that the baby or just a neighborhood drunk singing "Swing Low Sweet Chariot"?

12:19:03 am: It's the baby.

12:21 am: Another diaper change - she's soaked again after her 10:00 comfort food feast.

12:31 am: We walk around her room and rock in her chair for a bit. Neither is working. I hear a weird sound outside her window and scramble to the door with the Meemers in my arms, knocking my knee into her gate on the way out. That's gonna leave a mark. I break the second Golden Rule and pull the baby into bed between Joe and me.

12:53 am: After lying still with her woobie for 20 minutes, the Meemers decides it's playtime and begins to poke me in the eyes and mouth. This will not do. Back to her room. (The strange noise was our cat who was locked outside for the night.)

12:54 am: MeMo returns to her crib and falls asleep again (fingers crossed), hopefully for the night.

3:02 am: A cry from the nursery. Was that the baby or the small troll I just saw run across our floor playing his mandolin?

3:02:07 am: I am hallucinating. There was no troll, it was the baby.

3:06 am: Another diaper change. A dose of Tylenol (she's cutting her incisors and has been chomping on her fingers for the past three weeks). I hold her, I rock her. I walk with her. I bring her back into our bed. I take her downstairs. We sing, we laugh, we cry. She is resisting all tactics. Nothing is working. I am nearly out of resources.

3:38 am: I am right on the edge. MeMo doesn't need me and I can't figure out what she needs. I place her in her crib and retreat to her rocking chair. She cries harder and standing in her crib calls "Mama! Mama! Mama!" My heart is breaking. Resorting to a revised Ferber Method, I look at the clock and note the time. Just five minutes. I can do this.

3:40 am: Crying seems to subside a bit.

3:41 am: Crying stops momentarily and then resumes.

3:42 am: Crying stops all together and MeMo lays down in her crib (THANK YOU, GOD!). That wasn't so bad. Silence.

3:43 am: Crying resumes. It's been five minutes. I go to her, ease her back down onto her mattress and cover her with a blanket. She immediately stands in the crib and violently shakes the rails, threatening to tear the thing down. I glance at the clock and note the time. Five more minutes. I CAN do this.

3:48 am: Repeat above cycle from 3:38 - 3:43. My husband opens the door to ask if I need help. I want to gouge out his eyes with hot pokers. The Meemers sees and hears him and cries harder than ever.

3:51 am: Am I making the right decision here? What if she needs me? What if she has food poisoning or contracted SARS and I am just sitting here, feet away from the crib in the dark, never taking my eyes from the clock and counting down the minutes, praying this baby will fall asleep. I am the worst mother ever! I will wind up in hell for this one. What am I doing?

3:52: I hate Dr. Ferber! He is a moron and should have his license revoked!

3:54: Crying stops all together.

3:56: Silence is replaced by a heavy, rhythmic breathing. The Meemers is asleep! Victory! Dr. Ferber is a genius!

3:57: Back to bed, feeling guilty about wanting to gouge out Joe's eyes.

7:00: Alarm sounds. I want to hurl myself off a bridge.