Sleep was the theme of the week. Every morning Rob and I go over the events of the previous night. "How did you sleep?" "OK. Not great. You?" "OK." And the comes the math: how many hours we were in bed divided by the number of wakings, carry the three hours when Ivy decided she wasn't hungry but she wasn't sleepy either, which makes...not very much sleep.
When Rob and I curl up in our king-size bed, it seems luxurious. Add a baby, a preschooler, and a fat kitty to the mix and things become clown-car cramped. I sleep with everything drawn in tightly and (I hope) out of everyone else's personal space, and wake up with knots in muscles I'd forgotten about.
It's fine, though. Really fine. And I'm not just saying that in a blow-you-off-I'm-suffering-and-don't-want-to-talk-about-it way. We're doing really, really well on rest. Ivy is working on getting a good five-hour block of sleep after we first put her down. I'm working on remembering that not every little squawk means "I'm hungry and I need you!" Rob and I each drink a strong cup of coffee in the morning, and at night, we go to bed when the kids go to bed.
This postpartum period, I taught myself early on to prioritize sleep above all things. It worked. I can tell because I start yawning at 8:15 PM.