Let the father sleep

I'm awoken every morning with a broadside pillow attack, the ruthless placement of which depends on how joyous a night I have just had the misfortune of missing. Unfortunately, I'm virtually impossible to wake up in the morning so the pillow quickly transforms into the latest tome detailing the crisis in which I now exist. This morning's was "What to Expect the First Year". Paperbacks are now a house rule.

Once awake I'm expected to perform a series of miracles resulting in both my lovely wife and the noble Throckmorton sleeping peacefully for the following century. But of course, the pillow attack causes me to say something ill-thought like, "Oh, I'd like to sleep in this morning." Rousing responses ranging from: "Sleep in? I am never going to sleep again, you selfish fucking bastard" blah blah blah to "If you fall back asleep I will beat you mercilessly. Every day. Of your life." Neither of which are a nice start to the day, much less an impetus for continued sleep.

But once past my well-honed petty bickering talents, my lovely wife seems to think that I have somewhere up my sleeve an arsenal of useful fathering skills. I really do not know where she got this impression, and I constantly assure her that I am as useless as the day we met.

This morning, for example, I was awoken via mysterious means and found myself nose-to-nose with a bellowing Hastrobal, the lovely wife making delicate whimpering sounds in the background. I wouldn't say I sprung into action, but compared to most mornings, today was impressive. I got up, ignored my lovely wife's detailed recount of the night past, reached over for my little samurai Kikuchiyo and brought him to the living room. Here my virtuoso fathering skills were put to the test.

We paced around the flat, we listened to music, we discussed our distinguished ancestry, we bounced, I pleaded, we went for a walk outside, we watched the northern sky turn from dark gray to light gray (thus signaling a new day in this fine country), we played the let's change your diaper and then you shit game, actually we played that twice. All to no avail. Young Achilles appeared to have as much interest in sleeping as I have in New Jersey turnpike traffic patterns (did I mention the outlaws are here?).

Defeated, I curled my shoulders and dragged myself, son in arms, to the great mothership, who was fast asleep. I lightly poked, I whispered, I rubbed her shoulder, then Exree screamed at the top of his lungs. She woke up, young Studebake fed, and I tried to go back to sleep.

This is all just a plea to let the father sleep. We are useless from midnight until 7 am. There is really nothing we can do. We should just sleep.

It is in everyone's interest that you, motherships worldwide, let the fathers sleep.