April 23, 2006. I’ll never forget that date. That’s when our quadruplets started sleeping through the night.
The months before that glorious day are a blur. I remember patches of slumber punctured by babies crying and apnea monitors going off like air raid sirens. Our night nanny worked only the weekdays, so I worked graveyard shift on the weekends and slept during the day. Every Monday, I struggled to flip my sleep schedule back to normal. My days at work were foggy and I had little patience for anything that wasn’t rote and procedural. I recall arguing with my wife over miniscule things because sleep deprivation gave me the frustration tolerance of a Chihuahua. My body slowly deteriorated from lack of sleep, four Red Bulls a day, no exercise, and a diet of cheese-covered, noodle-filled delicacies brought by volunteers from our church.
After almost a year of this, my wife, under far more stress than I was, insisted that something had to change. A friend recommended an infant sleep expert and we secured her services with urgency. She gently guided us through adjusting our schedules and lifestyle. Within a week, our three beautiful girls and our handsome boy were going to bed at six p.m. They slept thirteen hours a night and took two naps a day. That week, my wife and I sat down to dinner—together, no less—and leisurely consumed our food instead of inhaling it. Halfway through the meal, I said, “Hi, I’m Steve. Aren’t we married or something?”
It felt like I’d been released from prison. Life with baby quadruplets was still a challenge, but seven or eight uninterrupted hours of sleep renewed and refreshed us. I was overjoyed. Now I could get my life back. I was going to exercise, write more, and get back to some of the frivolous fun of my pre-quadruplet life.
Scottish poet and musician Mike Scott wrote, “If you want to give God a laugh, tell Him your plans.” As I rushed to reclaim my old life, God was laughing His ass off. After He stopped laughing, He gave me sciatica.
