She slept through.
SHE SLEPT THROUGH.
I want to kiss strangers in the street, kick my heels in the air and doff my bowler hat to passers-by because SHE SLEPT THROUGH.
I want to lead a pride march of bedraggled, bleary-eyed parents who've done their time in the trenches and come out the other side. We'll wave our flags, we'll laugh and dance, we'll high-five our brothers and sisters in arms, we'll hoist on our shoulders the weak, the weary and the sleep deprived, and then we'll stumble home to lap up more of that sweet, sweet sleep.
No more falling out of bed at 10pm, 1am, 3am, 5, 6 and 7. No more blurry predawn breastfeeds. No more foggy mornings, wondering just how I'll maintain a semblance of sanity for another 12 hours.
No more accosting other parents with a deranged gleam in my eye, shaking their shoulders and demanding they tell me their babysleep secrets. No more pouring over Pantley, Weissbluth, Ferber, Tizzie and Gina. No more vulnerability to every two-bit shyster who promises to unlock the mysteries of infant slumber once I click to hand over 29.95.
I tell my Mum. I tell Facebook. I tell the guy at the grocery store. I consider sky writing.
Oceans may rise. Empires may fall. But I'm doing fine because SHE SLEPT THROUGH.