I thought I had this parenting thing all figured a while back when Jackson hit a groove and was easing up on requiring parental services for every part of this life.  When the new guy came along we hit our stride pretty quickly and got a routine up and running the minute we were home from the hospital. For the first few weeks, the baby would sleep in the doc-a-tot thing or even in the Rock and play. I had no worries of long sleepless nights and knew once Oliver checked out A-OK for allergies this was going to be a piece of cake. 

I had False visions of a snoring little bundle of joy, peacefully dreaming while I watched his little face smiling back at me.  I’d be able to look over emails and complete teacher observation write-ups. I’d be able to binge watch on Netflix and get back to writing on a more consistent basis. Heck I’d even maybe up my to reading a more than two books a month. 

That was until I realized that my son was being possessed by Voldemort… before I came to the conclusion that he was housing a piece of Voldemort’s souls inside him… before I spent eight straight hours bouncing, walking, soothing, or rocking this evil little dark wizard from 9-5pm every night… before I heard the decibels of screaming that this child’s tiny voice box could produce… before I went three straight weeks with little to no sleep. 

And you know what… that’s my bad. I shouldn’t have been so cocky. I shouldn’t have counted my eggs before they hatched. I should have banked as much sleep as I could early on. And that’s what happens when you fly too close to the sun. Too much confidence will “melt the wax on your wings” and send you to a certain death. It happened to Icarus and its now happened to me.