So I'm sitting there with my forefingers and thumbs pressed together, trying so hard to evoke the calm, Zen, Buddha...and down the hall the baby screams as if his Pop Tart has been taken away mid-bite. Which it was, earlier that day, by an ornery older brother who decided right then was as good a time as any to take revenge for the stomped-upon block castle. But I digress, as any sleep-deprived mother is wont to do. So the baby is maybe remembering the aforementioned traumatic Tart Theft and that's why he's up at 3:15 in the morning, suffering very audibly in his crib. And I'm trying to pretend I'm a cold-fish-mommy who cares not one whit about the misery my baby is being forced to endure by sleeping in his own bed instead of hogging mine. (My older son might beg to differ about the pretending part.) Finally, in my best Mommy Dearest impression, I get up from my lotus position, that's not helping anyways, and go and close the door to my bedroom. And go lie down again. With my pillow over my head and the fan going full tilt. I think this is what's called self-preservation.