People often ask me: “How are you sleeping?”
Because I know they are referring to Gus, who sleeps like a good-to-average 7-week-old babe, I usually say, “fine.”
No one ever asks how Jeff is sleeping.
Monty has been screaming out his 2-year molars a few times each night (forgivable), but Lucy’s all-night-antics lack any rational excuse (“I’m afraid a squirrel might come in my bed” was her most recent).
I’ve added reasoning with her to my morning routine. This morning:
Me: Lucy, you have to let Dad sleep at night. He was really tired going to work today.
Lucy: When we have this conversation, I feel like I just want to be a cat.
Me: Why is that?
Lucy: meow meoooow