Cass O'Cooley

Born to Ryan Patrick Cooley and Meghan Sarah McEwen, Cass is undoubtedly a wee Irish. So on his very first St. Patrick’s Day, we outfitted him in obligatory shamrock green garb and strolled over to Corktown’s annual St. Patrick’s Day parade, better known these days for raucous beer-swilling and shenanigans than displaying any authentic traditions or cultural relevance.

It didn’t matter. Cass had a blast anyway, obsessively fondling shiny green beads, making friends with strangers and bobbing his head to the beat of a ragtag high school drumline from the inner city.

Here are some photos I meant to put up sooner.

St. Patrick's Day Photos

Morning Has Broken

When it comes to Cass' sleep regimen, there is very little we haven't tried: co-sleeping, a bedside bassinet, crying, comforting, standing in the room with one hand on his back until he drifts back to sleep.

Our big issue was middle of the night wake-ups. I have read every single piece of baby sleep literature ever published—in print and online. The Baby Whisperer, check. Weissblum and his Healthy Sleep Habits tome, ditto. I studied Ferber like an eager student, earmarking pages and creating my own sleep charts. I fought my middle-of-the-night mothering instincts, allowing Cass to cry until my heart exploded and my ears bled, my pillow soaked with my own tears, as I agonized through every minute until we could go back into the nursery. Mothers, doctors, sleep scientists all write about the agony of this process, and I hang on for their promised glory: a baby who sleeps soundly through the night; a baby who can comfort himself back to sleep if he wakes up. And with Ryan as the enforcer of the no-picking-up rule (and me as the distraught minute-counter), it actually worked—almost freakishly well.

I thought nothing could be worse. Until, just a month or so later, Cass started rising at 5am every single morning. Initially, we thought it was a fluke. Surely, he would grow out of it. He had to, right? He didn't.

We couldn't continue waking up at 5am. Again, we hit the books, each expert doling out different advice. An earlier bedtime. A later bedtime. Dream feedings. Cry it out. Bringing him into our bed in the morning. We even resorted to tales from the old wives crypt—more starch before bedtime. Nothing worked. Until I found a hidden section within an unrelated chapter in the Ferber bible—our beloved hero, who saved us the first time around. Seemingly impossible, it was infinitely more complicated than anything we've seen before. I had to take notes (no joke), and we followed them diligently. The short of it: adjusting feeding times and nap schedules by 15 minute increments, while simultaneously moving back bedtime (temporarily) and limiting nap durations. It turns out, Cass is a lark (he has a natural disposition toward early awakenings) and we have to coax him from a predetermined cycle of DNA-encrypted circadian rhythms.

Once again, it works like magic. We feel powerful—almighty even. We can alter the course of nature--of DNA. Our parental egos swell, and like Dorothy, who realizes she didn't need the glittery red shoes after all, we flippantly dismiss Ferber's contribution, concluding instead that we are naturals at this parenting stuff—perhaps the best parents to ever rear a child. We are virtuosos of the parenting world.

Proud and well-rested, we cherish our sleeping angel for a couple months, and then a few days ago, the fantasy disintegrates with 5am siren calls once again. I stand above my bed, swaying back and forth, temples throbbing already, as i consider the fight ahead—and whether or not I have the steely reserves to persevere. In a final attempt to ward off a case of the zombies that will surely ensue, I rub his back gently, hoping it will coax him back to sleep for another hour.

And something happens--even more beautiful than sleep. Cass rubs my back in return, almost like he's the one comforting me. And perhaps he is. It's the very first time he has returned an act of love in kind, and my heart stands still for a full minute, before tumbling down into my belly. His little hand mimics the motion of my hand on his tiny back, and in that instant, I understand why the smallest rewards of being a parent far outweigh even the most substantial of sacrifices.

First Pick

He seems neither proud nor embarrassed by his latest discovery. Luckily, his finger is too chubby to make any real progress up the nasal passage.