My wife calls me from Ireland. The baby has been acting up, barely eating and refusing to sleep. Since she doesn’t have a temperature, we’re content she doesn’t have a fever, and wonder aloud if there’s a sleep regression we’ve missed. This is likely, as we realise neither of us have used the term ‘sleep regression’ since our son was her age, when such phrases held biblical significance to us both. Back then, we knew the timelines of sleep regressions and growth leaps as if they were our own medical histories. In the years since, a combination of gained experience, increased confidence and an undeniable amount of sheer exhaustion means this has not been the case with our daughter, who’s been raised, basically, on vibes.
I try to console and counsel, but find I can be of little help. I’m in London and she’s still in Dublin as we have no childcare this week and her parents, with a grace and kindness we can never repay, are minding the baby during the day while she works from their spare room. I, meanwhile, have travelled back home to Walthamstow with our son, for a week of solo parenting. Just in time for Father’s Day, I expected it to be a strong test of my parenting mettle, but my wife’s experience has put mine in the shade, and I squirm a bit as I tell her we’ve been having a wonderful time.
