I try not to complain about it, because it's boring. I know this, but I can't help myself from thinking about it all the time. And because this blog is a repository for thoughts, I figure I might as well do a little carping—boring as it may be. I'll begin with a hope:
I would like a full night of sleep.
As parents, my wife and I have been blessed with two adorable little boys. We've also been cursed with two poor sleepers. They are not record-book bad—but they're up there.
The bit, aside from the sleeplessness and frustration and the utter boredom of it as a topic, that I've come to detest about it, is the pointlessness of it all.
So much endurance of difficulty—learning a new skill, or a lifestyle change, or struggling with a relationship—has at least a reward, even a marginal one, that emerges out of it.
Aside from digging ever deeper my well of patience, I don't know if that's the case with parenting poor sleepers.
I'm sure whether there's any positive outcome that nets us something more than parents without such difficulty. And this feels rather pointless of the universe, subjecting us to such awful whimsy.
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