The sleep-deprived thoughts of a father who just wants his baby to fall asleep—
Even the most righteous and puritanical readers of this blog — many of whom are parents themselves — will probably find it hard to express disgust, or even disapproval, at the brilliant idea that has been forming in my exhausted mind for the past four and a half months.
In fact, ever since Sara was born.
First, let me state the obvious. I love my daughter more than anything else in my life. The truth is, I never imagined it was possible to feel such an overwhelming amount of emotion for another human being. Maybe it’s because I became a father for the first time at the age of 52. Maybe it’s because the emotional detachment I lived with for those 52 years suddenly exploded the moment Sara was born. Or maybe none of that really matters. My daughter is the most important thing in my life.
But like every parent — at least the ones I know — I’ve also discovered that even with all the love in the world, it’s not always easy to completely ignore the less pleasant sides of life once a newborn enters your home and demands their rightful place.
When the night refuses to end
Every new parent, and even some experienced ones, knows that it sometimes takes enormous reserves of patience to deal with those seemingly small things that can drive even the most loving and patient parent to the edge.
Allow me to introduce Exhibit A: crying.
That explosive little baby alarm that is so difficult to turn off, and that at certain moments — usually in the middle of the night — might make you willing to sell your soul to the devil just to turn down the volume a little.
I’m not talking about crying caused by pain or discomfort that a parent or a professional can address. That kind of crying is completely understandable, even necessary, because it tells us something really is wrong. I’m talking about a different kind of crying — pure, stubborn baby fussiness. The kind where a baby simply refuses to sleep at night under any circumstances, and every time you try to put them down, they demonstrate just how powerful their lungs really are.
Let me give you a personal example that I experience with Sara from time to time.
Imagine a late evening. You’re barely functioning — basically running on screensaver mode. Sara has already had her bath, her bottle, her burp, and I’ve thoroughly exhausted her with a variety of baby-entertainment techniques. It’s time to sleep — her sleep and your sleep.
But Sara has decided otherwise.
For reasons known only to Her Highness, she has determined that now is absolutely not the time for sleeping. The moment you place her in the crib — pacifier gently tucked into her mouth — she erupts into heartbreaking cries, the kind no human heart can ignore.
You try to calm her down. You gently rock the crib and stroke her head. But she has already made up her mind. This is not the time to sleep.
No problem. It happens. Everyone has nights like that.
So you pick her up, soothe her until the crying fades, and try to rock her to sleep in your arms — the classic human rocking-chair method. You’re exhausted, completely drained, your eyes barely open. Yet somehow you gather whatever tiny reserves of energy remain, even borrowing a little from tomorrow’s supply. You rock the baby slowly, praying for divine assistance.
But Sara doesn’t really care. She has decided that nobody is sleeping right now.
Not even in Dad’s arms.
A brief moment of hope
You decide to take a risk. Maybe if she feels the comfort of the mattress, sleep will finally take over.
But the moment Sara senses that you’re lowering her toward the crib, the tears begin flowing again — accompanied by that same heartbreaking cry. Sometimes she produces screams so powerful that you become convinced one of the neighbors is about to call the police, child services, or both. One would think her father was running some kind of medieval torture chamber.
You bite your lip, take a deep breath, and realize this is going to be one of those nights. In your overwhelming exhaustion your mind begins to wander. Maybe Sara has launched a war of attrition against you. Perhaps it’s revenge for some unknown offense — one she herself may not even be aware of.
Another round of carrying her in your arms. This time you wander around the house with her, rocking her gently like a human rocking chair — back and forth, back and forth — but Sara still refuses to sleep.
The idea that will change the world
This is the moment when despair begins to take over and strange ideas invade your imagination. This is when my master plan begins to form — a plan that will shake the world and completely change the rules of parenting forever.
Robosara.
No, I’m not talking about a new superhero or an emerging comic-book star, although that could definitely be an idea for another post. I’m talking about an artificial-intelligence invention that would make life for parents everywhere infinitely easier and more pleasant — so easy, in fact, that every parent might consider bringing an entire kindergarten into the world.
Picture my little Sara — sweet and round as she is — but with one small technological upgrade: several buttons built into her tiny body. Buttons designed to help her loving and collapsing father deal a little more efficiently with the whims of his beloved daughter.
Sara crying for no apparent reason and there’s no end in sight? Press a button — and the crying stops instantly.
Sara refuses to sleep? No problem. One small click — and she’s snoring loud enough to shake the walls.
Not in the mood to eat? Another button — and she happily finishes her bottle.
Just like that, the world changes. No more crying babies, no babies refusing to sleep, no babies refusing to eat. Babies and their parents live in perfect harmony, the likes of which the universe has never known.
A billion-dollar invention
Go ahead and laugh all you want. But there isn’t a parent alive who wouldn’t welcome such a perfect solution. Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, and Sam Altman certainly wouldn’t mind owning the patent for such a revolutionary invention.
In fact, it would probably make me richer than all three of them combined — if only I had the faintest idea how to actually build something like that.
Don’t worry. I haven’t completely lost my mind. It’s just the imagination of a very tired father — perhaps a slightly childish one — who sometimes longs for a little relief.
And now I’m curious. If such an invention really existed — a baby with a small button that could turn off crying or activate sleep mode — would you press it?
Or would you prefer to keep comforting, soothing, and enduring it all… with love?
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