My newborn daughter is asleep in her swing. She sometimes does this, sleeping from ten in the morning till about two in the afternoon, a time I think of as the “hours of sanity.” If she did it consistently, that would really be something.

If I could actually plan for it, I could set the time aside for various projects. Things I've been meaning to do, things I've been neglecting. I could watch a movie on Netflix, maybe.

But it's not consistent. Sometimes her nap is from eight until three, followed by another one from six until eleven. Sometimes she only naps for a half an hour. Sometimes she doesn't nap at all, staring out at the world with a disgruntled expression or just plain screaming her lungs out for five straight hours.

Sometimes she will not scream, but only if I entertain her. If the quality of the entertainment is just barely acceptable, which is the most I can hope for, she will fix me with a vaguely nauseated expression and allow me to bounce her on my knee or pretend she's flying. She'll sigh occasionally just to let me know that she is only tolerating this rather than truly enjoying it.

If the quality of the entertainment is not acceptable, she will give me a dirty look, a terrible guilt-tripping “how could you?” expression. And then the screaming will resume. That is why I am spending only half of my brain power actually writing this blog post. I am using the other half to beam her a psychic message:

“Stay asleep. Stay asleep. Please, baby, stay asleep.”