Recently, I read about a scientific theory by University of California, Los Angeles, sleep researcher Jerome Siegel. Siegel is trying to figure out why animals and humans sleep; he has suggested that there is no vital universal function for sleep.
In other words, Siegel denounces the popular idea that animals sleep because there is some physiological or neural function that must be accomplished when they are sleeping, and cannot be accomplished when they are awake. Siegel suggests instead that the main functions of sleep are to conserve resources and maintain efficiency. In other words: to stay out of the way until there is reason to wake.
Now, I’m no scientist. And I confess that until I read about Jerome Siegel, I’m not sure I even knew there was such a thing as a “sleep researcher.” However, I know Jerome Siegel is right. For one thing, I trust his methodology, since I relate to his studied demographic. (Noting that newborn whales and dolphins and their mothers survive on an almost complete lack of sleep, Siegel hypothesized that there must be something other than a physiological motive for sleep.) Which leads me to the real reason that I believe Jerome Siegel is onto something. I’m referring to the indisputable truth that no one sleeps through the night in my house.
Almost every night, I tuck my children in and whisper the same loving words to them as they drift off to sleep: “Please stay in your bed … all night … unless there’s an emergency.” Over the years, emergencies have consisted of spiders, stomach bugs, and terrible nightmares. Emergencies have also consisted of feet coming out from under the covers and brothers snoring in a nearby bed. My oldest son is the most creative. He has arrived at the side of my bed on countless nights. Standing. Staring. Waiting. When I open my eyes with a start to see him there, he leans in and whispers: “Mommy, I almost had a nightmare.”
“What do you mean, ‘almost’?”
“Well, I felt like I was going to have a nightmare, but then I didn’t.”
“Honey, go to sleep.”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“I can’t because I’m afraid I’m going to have a nightmare.”
I doze. He continues standing there, relentless. He begins anew. “Mommy, I almost had a nightmare.”
“Please, honey.”
“Mommy, I miss you.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll come tuck you in again.” He pounces into my arms, proud and victorious. And I know, before you say it, that you blame me. That you think I give in too easily and that is why they show up at my bedside so often with pretend emergencies. But have mercy on me; I am vulnerable at 2 a.m. My defenses are asleep, even though I am not. (I have always been intrigued by those to-the-rescue nanny reality shows where the British nanny helps parents get their children to sleep for the night, investing one, two, up to three hours in getting them down, and then leaves the parents to their own devices for the rest of the night. “But wait,” I always ask the unresponsive television screen, “what about when they get back up in the middle of the night? And you’re half asleep? And thus willing to agree to anything? What then?”)
It seems to have started the night I brought my firstborn home. I remember vividly two things from that night. First, I recall that I was terrified to fall asleep, certain that I was keeping him alive simply by staring at him. Second, I recall that I couldn’t have slept if I tried. My son wanted me; he clung to me. He didn’t want to sleep. Not at night, anyway. And he wailed every time I tried to put him down. Every time I thought about putting him down.
