Sandmandinista.

Simone is on strike. Unfortunately, she remains silent on the subject of demands, which is too bad because at this point, I am willing to give up anything, anything, if only she will reconsider her position on sleep. Which is that it is overrated. For both of us. I know one is not supposed to negotiate with terrorists, but the child has not taken a nap for weeks, excepting the occasional 25-minute snooze—which, in case you are reading this, young lady, DOES NOT COUNT. There have been two exceptions, but naps should be the rule, don’t you agree?

The strike extends to bedtime as well, a protracted battle extending from six to nine o’clock every evening, during which time Simone fights to keep her eyes open, finally swaddled in her swing with—hand to god—one eyelid cracked to watch us. When she can’t take it anymore and drops off, Scott and I transfer her to her crib in a complicated Black Ops procedure that ends with us tiptoeing frantically back to the living room and pumping our triumphant fists in the air.

If it weren’t for the swing, she’d never sleep at all, and today it ran out of batteries. I called Scott at work, and we had the following conversation:
PHONE: Brring! Brrring!
SCOTT: This is Sco—
ALEXA: THE BATTERIES DIED. IN THE SWING. DON’T YOU COME HOME WITHOUT MORE BATTERIES.

I have a copy of “Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child” (I am so tired I typed that as “Happy Speel Habits” THREE TIMES before getting it right—Exhibit A, People V. BAD BABY) but have not had time to read more than the first paragraphs. I feel certain that the solution lies somewhere between the covers of that book, but unless I am able to absorb the contents via osmosis, I have no hope of finding it. Of course I did get as far as the part where the author asserts that children with poor sleep habits are seven times more likely to grow up to knock off liquor stores in whatever time they don’t spend Not Calling and Never Writing their mothers. Thanks doctor! I feel better already.

It’s a good thing that babies are so fetching. In fact, I am willing to bet that this is how they evolved those winning smiles in the first place. Probably earlier models were pointy and unattractive, and when they stopped sleeping, their parents simply left them out on a hillside to be eaten by vultures. I imagine a meeting up on Mt. Olympus or someplace, all the gods offering suggestions:
“Try making the thighs fatter.”
“Have you considered a rounded cheek?”
“Maybe you could add a sort of powdery, milky smell to the head.”
Eventually something worked, and parents grudgingly kept their sleepless babies. And that is how the vulture became extinct. The End.