The exhausted child collapses in an untidy heap after crying himself hoarse. Up since 5 AM, you tiptoe away, whispering expletives at every creaky floorboard. You retreat to bed, determined to get back on track. As you fall asleep you contemplate the embroidery on the pillow: Gentle Sleep, Nature’s Soft Nurse.

One hour into what should be a three-hour siesta, the phone shrieks. You shoot up in bed in a panic on the fourth ring (you're done for) and the voice on the line chirps, “Not up yet? But it’s 9 AM! Wakey, wakey!” You grimace, making a mental note to bury the phone in the backyard.

Then a curious, determined oooo-WHAAA! erupts from the room next door. Nappus interruptus.

Pox, I say. Pox on them all. If someone’s drowning in front of our house and we have the only lifejacket in the province, don’t call. Try a rope first.

It's not their fault. The unexpected plumber with the bellowing voice. The garbage truck. And the universal enemy of all things peaceful: the motorcyclist. Until it’s your responsibility, your life and your sleep, you don’t get it. I didn’t.

Why are parents so anal? I’d wonder. Why do they think the whole world has to revolve around them? All they’re going to do is make their baby super-sensitive to normal household noise.

But now I’ve got one of my own, and he’s going through a The-World-Is-Way-Too-Interesting-To-Sleep phase. Every phone call, dog bark or slamming door sets off the day’s dominos. Critical 3-hour morning nap is cut short to one hour = inconsolable meltdown + one hour of crying-to-sleep for afternoon nap = nighttime wakings at 1:00, 3:00 and 5:30 AM.

My cranky self says: it's all the fault of the 9 AM knucklehead who has not yet been informed that the world revolves around our kid. My reasonable self says: this is what we signed up for. And the sight of Evan standing proudly in his crib, shaking the slats and giggling, makes me smile. Even when it's four hours too early.