Mine apparently have other plans.
September 23, 2026
By Emergency Contact (EC)
At approximately 5:30 PM, my baby was on the brink of sleep.
If you have a baby, you understand that “on the brink of sleep” is sacred territory.
You don’t speak.
You don’t breathe aggressively.
You don’t allow the floorboards to develop opinions.
You certainly don’t make any sudden noises unless the fucking house is on fire, and even then, depending on how long it took to get the baby down, we may need to evaluate the severity of the fire before making any rash decisions.
Unfortunately, I live with Dumb & Fuckin Stupider.
Let me introduce them.
Barky Bitch is a Siberian Husky, which means God took a beautiful, majestic snow dog and installed a car alarm in it.
Barky Bitch has something to say about absolutely fucking everything.
Someone walks through the house?
AWOOOOOO.
He wants to go outside?
AWOOOOOO.
He has returned from outside?
AWOOOOOO.
A grocery bag moves three rooms away?
He has prepared a statement.
Someone actually comes to the door, thereby creating the exact scenario in which having a large, vocal dog might be useful?
Nothing.
Can’t be bothered.
Security is apparently outside the scope of his position.
His associate, Fat Fuckin Whore, is a calico Siamese cat.
Before anybody contacts the authorities, Fat Fuckin Whore is deeply loved.
She’s also a fuckin bitch.
These things are not mutually exclusive.
Together, they’re Dumb & Fuckin Stupider.
I can’t tell you which one is Dumb and which one is Fuckin Stupider.
You choose.
Mostly because neither position is permanent.
They both spend an ungodly amount of time fighting for first place in the roles.
Barky Bitch will spend twenty minutes yelling at absolutely fucking nothing and then suddenly lose his voice when someone actually comes to the door.
Fat Fuckin Whore will watch me perform the delicate hostage negotiation required to get a five-month-old within three eyelashes of sleep and apparently think:
You know what this situation needs? Me.
Together, they are beautiful.
They are loved.
They are family.
And they are so fucking stupid.
5:30 PM — The First Offense
Meatball was almost asleep.
Not getting tired.
Not probably ready for a nap.
We were right fucking there.
And Dumb & Fuckin Stupider woke her up.
Fully.
Once Meatball realized she’d been forcibly returned to consciousness, she decided she was hungry.
Because of course she did.
So now we’re having a bottle.
We’re having some purée.
We’re hanging out.
Fine.
Sleep has been temporarily postponed, but that’s okay. Babies wake up. We’ll feed her, hang out for a while, and try again.
This optimism will become embarrassing later.
Eventually, Drop Dead Fred comes over.
We hang out.
And around 7:30, Fred manages to get Meatball back to sleep.
Beautiful.
Peace has been restored.
The tiny dictator is unconscious.
Fred has successfully repaired the damage inflicted by Dumb & Fuckin Stupider.
Surely everyone will now leave the fucking baby alone.
8 PM — Fat Fuckin Whore Chooses Violence
Fred leaves around 8.
And Fat Fuckin Whore apparently watches her go and thinks:
Absolutely the fuck not.
She wakes Meatball up again.
This time Barky Bitch cannot be implicated.
This was a solo operation.
FFW looked at Fred’s hard work, evaluated it carefully, and decided to destroy it.
At this point, I would like to remind the court that this cat had already participated in waking this baby once today.
She knew the consequences.
She was a repeat offender.
And if I had to pinpoint the moment the evening officially went to shit, this would be it.
Because Meatball never really recovered.
She’d fall asleep.
Wake up.
I’d settle her.
She’d fall asleep.
Wake up.
I’d settle her.
Again.
And again.
And a-fucking-gain.
At some point, I stopped feeling like a mother putting her baby to bed and started feeling like the overnight employee at an establishment that refused to fucking close.
Fuck-O’Clock — Barky Bitch Needs to Shit
Because Meatball’s sleep schedule wasn’t sufficiently fucked yet, Barky Bitch informed me that he needed to go outside.
At an ungodly hour.
To shit.
Fine.
Go shit.
I put him outside.
This is also the same animal who had already managed to stink up one of my blankets earlier.
How?
Irrelevant.
I will not be taking questions regarding the precise origin of the Funky Blanket at this time.
I simply know that Barky Bitch had contributed an odor to the household and now his gastrointestinal tract had apparently added an item to the overnight agenda.
About half an hour later, with Sparkles still at work, I texted her asking her to bring him back inside when she got home.
Because at this point, I wasn’t running a household anymore.
I was managing a poorly staffed overnight facility where every resident had different needs and none of them paid rent.
While I was at it, I reminded Sparkles that Fat Fuckin Whore’s water needed attention and the litter boxes needed cleaning.
Normal household shit.
Dog outside.
Cat maintenance.
Baby refusing to sleep.
My sanity hanging on by a thread.
Then I followed those completely ordinary household-management messages with:
Bro she will not fucking sleep.
And:
She’s woken up like 3 fucking times.
It was 12:57 AM.
Please note the time.
12:57.
We weren’t approaching the shitshow.
We had been in the shitshow.
The night wasn’t about to go to shit.
The night had been going to shit since 5:30 yesterday afternoon.
The Establishment Remains Open
At some point, this stopped being bedtime.
Bedtime implies an eventual conclusion.
This was now a 24-hour operation.
Meatball would sleep just long enough for my body to begin entertaining the possibility that perhaps I, too, might be allowed to become unconscious.
Then:
WAAAAAH.
Management has been summoned.
Again.
Sometimes she needed something.
Sometimes she apparently just wanted to confirm I remained employed.
One particular emergency was especially urgent.
Critical.
Possibly life-threatening.
Her pacifier had fallen out.
Meatball woke herself up, discovered this catastrophic development, and immediately filed a formal complaint.
Management responded.
Pacifier restored.
Crisis resolved.
Excellent.
Goodnight.
Except Meatball did not go back to sleep.
She rolled onto her side.
And stared at me.
Silently.
👁️👄👁️
Ma’am.
Your service request has been completed.
Why are you still here?
She wasn’t crying.
She wasn’t hungry.
She didn’t appear to have any additional concerns.
She simply wanted her pacifier returned so she could continue being awake more comfortably.
This is apparently a service we provide.
Somewhere in the Middle of the Night — Acceptance
Eventually, you reach a point in a sleepless night where you stop thinking:
I need to get back to sleep.
Because “back to sleep” implies that sleep remains part of the evening’s agenda.
Instead, you accept your new reality.
Apparently we fucking live here now.
So I ate leftover burritos.
Because if I’m going to spend my night operating an unauthorized 24-hour pacifier replacement service while Dumb & Fuckin Stupider handle sabotage and gastrointestinal affairs, I’m at least going to have a snack.
And eventually—
Meatball started snoring.
Oh.
Oh, NOW you’re tired?
Interesting.
I watched this child sleep peacefully after she had spent hours systematically dismantling my will to live.
She looked precious.
Beautiful.
Perfect.
I love her more than anything.
I also wanted her to know that this relationship had been damaged.
5 AM — Fuck It, I’m Already Awake
At some point during the night, I had made a decision.
Fuck the 5 AM pump.
Absolutely not.
I’d been awake all fucking night.
Meatball had treated sleep like an optional extracurricular activity.
I was exhausted.
The pump could wait.
I was going to sleep.
And I meant it.
Then Meatball woke me up.
Again.
So there I was.
Awake.
At 5 fucking AM.
Not because my boobs demanded anything.
Not because I suddenly developed an inspiring commitment to my pumping schedule.
Because Meatball had once again summoned management.
And at that point I figured:
Well, fuck it. I’m already awake.
So I pumped.
Fifteen minutes.
Momcozy collection cups hooked up to my Spectra.
Milk acquired.
Not because of discipline.
Not because of dedication.
Not because my boobs filed a grievance with HR.
Because my baby had already ruined the sleep I was trying to prioritize.
Might as well make the tits productive.
Morning — Reinforcements Arrive
Eventually, Sparkles took over Meatball operations.
Finally.
My moment had arrived.
No baby requiring me.
No pacifier retrieval.
No Barky Bitch requesting gastrointestinal assistance.
No pumping.
No Fat Fuckin Whore actively sabotaging infant sleep.
Just me.
My bed.
And unconsciousness.
And for the first time all night, I actually got into some deeper sleep.
Which taught me something fascinating about my body.
During all those shitty little fragments of sleep overnight?
No sweating.
Once I finally entered actual, meaningful sleep?
I woke up sweaty as fuck.
Apparently my body had been saving that activity for when I was finally comfortable.
Thank you.
Very thoughtful.
And then—
My phone rang.
Not an emergency.
Not anything involving someone I love.
An appointment reminder.
For an appointment I had already been reminded about.
BY TEXT.
I can’t simply block every incoming call. I’m a mother. If there’s an emergency involving one of my children, I need people to be able to reach me.
So there I was.
Awake.
Sweaty.
Staring at my phone.
After surviving Dumb & Fuckin Stupider and approximately 7,000 Meatball wake-ups, the final assassin sent to eliminate my sleep was:
administrative communication.
Almost 11 AM — Nobody Asked Me to Hold This Meeting
Eventually, I heard Meatball fussing.
And Sparkles still hadn’t come to get me.
This concerned me because I had explicitly told her:
Wake me when you’re ready to go to sleep and I’ll get her.
She acknowledged that she heard me.
Therefore, the rational thing to do was obvious.
Stay where I was.
When Sparkles was ready for the handoff, she would wake me.
Unfortunately, my brain said:
But what if she’s mad?
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Now I’m lying there thinking about how Sparkles has to work again tonight.
She needs sleep.
Maybe I should go get Meatball.
But she said she’d wake me.
But what if she doesn’t want to ask?
But what if she’s irritated?
But what if I’m being inconsiderate?
But what if—
Nobody had said anything.
I was conducting an entire fucking interpersonal conflict entirely by myself.
Eventually, my bladder intervened.
I had to pee.
So I got up and checked in.
“Why didn’t you wake me earlier?”
And that’s when I learned the truth.
Sparkles and Meatball had slept until around 9 AM.
Then they woke up.
That’s it.
That’s the fucking mystery.
Sparkles hadn’t forgotten our agreement.
She wasn’t silently waiting for me to get up.
She wasn’t sitting there exhausted and resentful while I slept.
She simply wasn’t ready to hand the baby back yet.
Meanwhile, I had convened the Supreme Court of Maternal Guilt from my bedroom over a conflict that existed exclusively in my own fucking head.
I asked Sparkles if she’d keep Meatball a little longer while I made coffee and pumped.
She said yes.
Oh.
Okay.
Glad we had this meeting.
The Following Afternoon — An Update From the Editing Department
After surviving the night, sleeping what little I could, making coffee, pumping, and generally attempting to become a functioning member of society again, I decided to document the experience.
Meatball was asleep.
Perfect.
I ran myself a hot bubble bath.
I got in.
And I started writing a blog post called:
Sleep Is for People Whose Babies Respect Them.
You can probably see where this is going.
I had just gotten into the fucking bath when I heard fussing from the other room.
Surely she’ll resettle.
She’s exhausted.
She barely slept last night.
She needs this nap.
Maybe I can remain submerged for thirty consecutive minutes like a person who possesses basic human rights.
Nope.
Meatball’s nap lasted approximately twenty fucking minutes.
Twenty.
That’s not a nap.
That’s an intermission.
So I hauled my wet, annoyed ass out of the bathtub to retrieve the same baby whose refusal to sleep I was actively writing about.
The source material was now interfering with publication.
And because I had just gotten into the bath, I hadn’t even had a chance to put a bra on yet.
We played for a while.
Meatball remained sleepy.
Meatball remained grumpy.
Meatball continued fighting the sleep responsible for her being sleepy and grumpy.
My boobs, meanwhile, noticed that I had chosen freedom and began leaking.
Excellent.
So now the bath is abandoned.
The baby is awake.
The baby is pissed off because she’s tired.
I’m leaking breast milk.
And I have to put a bra on because apparently my own body has also joined the list of things requiring management.
Then Meatball decides she’s hungry.
Of course she is.
So I make her a five-ounce bottle.
Three ounces in:
Still awake.
Still sleepy.
Still grumpy.
Still fighting it.
Ma’am.
Nobody is preventing you from sleeping.
There is no anti-sleep legislation currently before Congress.
There is no court order requiring your eyes to remain open.
You can simply close them.
And then—
While still refusing to sleep—
she starts shitting.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Barky Bitch had already contributed an ungodly-hour shit to this story.
Apparently Meatball felt the narrative lacked symmetry.
And this was not a discreet little baby poop.
No.
This child began stinking up the entire fucking room.
So now, while writing a story about how my babies refuse to respect sleep, I have been forced out of my bubble bath by a twenty-minute napper, leaked from my uncontained titties, put on an emergency bra, played with a furious sleepy baby, started feeding said baby, and am now sitting in a room being chemically assaulted by her ass.
And she’s still fighting sleep.
At this point, I stopped trying to write the conclusion.
Because every time I attempted to summarize the incident, one of my dependents submitted additional evidence.
Official Incident Report — CLOSED
After further investigation, I believe we finally have enough evidence to close this case.
Dumb & Fuckin Stupider woke Meatball when she was on the brink of sleep.
Meatball ate.
Fred repaired the situation.
Fat Fuckin Whore promptly broke it again.
Meatball spent the rest of the night repeatedly reopening an establishment that had been trying to close since approximately 5:30 PM.
Barky Bitch needed to shit at fuck-o’clock, got put outside, and waited for Sparkles to retrieve him while maintaining his earlier contribution to the evening:
The Funky Blanket.
One pacifier emergency was resolved only for the complainant to remain awake afterward and stare directly at management.
I ate burritos.
I canceled my 5 AM pump.
Meatball canceled my cancellation.
Since I was already fucking awake, I pumped anyway.
I finally achieved meaningful sleep.
My body celebrated this accomplishment by turning me into a human swamp.
Then an automated appointment reminder called me despite the fact that I had already received the exact same reminder BY FUCKING TEXT.
Later, I spent part of my morning lying in bed wondering whether Sparkles was secretly irritated that I hadn’t gotten up yet, only to discover that she had heard me perfectly fucking well and simply wasn’t ready for the handoff yet.
Glad I convened the Supreme Court of Maternal Guilt over that one.
Then, because apparently I am both resilient and fucking stupid, I attempted self-care.
I made coffee.
I pumped.
I ran a hot bubble bath.
Meatball went down for a nap.
I thought:
Finally.
And then, approximately twenty minutes later, while I was actively writing a blog post called Sleep Is for People Whose Babies Respect Them, the subject of the fucking article woke up.
I had barely gotten into the tub.
I hadn’t even put a bra on.
So I hauled my ass back out of the bath and went to retrieve her.
We played.
She remained sleepy.
She remained grumpy.
She continued refusing to participate in the one activity that would resolve both of those problems.
Meanwhile, my uncontained titties started leaking.
So I put on a bra.
Then Meatball demanded food.
I made five ounces.
Three ounces in, she was still awake.
Still tired.
Still pissed off about being tired.
Still refusing to sleep.
And then—
she started shitting.
Not quietly.
Not discreetly.
This child began stinking up the entire fucking room.
Apparently Barky Bitch’s overnight bowel movement had introduced a theme and Meatball felt strongly about continuity.
So there I sat.
Bubble bath abandoned.
Boobs contained after an active leak.
Bottle in hand.
Sleepy baby refusing to sleep.
Room rapidly becoming uninhabitable.
And somewhere in the middle of all of this, I realized something.
There is absolutely no fucking lesson here.
I did not gaze upon my sleeping baby and realize these are the nights I’ll someday miss.
Mostly because she wouldn’t fucking sleep.
I did not discover a hidden reservoir of maternal strength.
I did not learn to cherish the chaos.
I learned that I live with a collection of dependents who appear to be engaged in a coordinated campaign against unconsciousness.
One will wake up because she lost her pacifier, receive the pacifier, and then remain awake to silently supervise me.
One will announce every irrelevant household development at full Husky volume but decline to participate when his security services might actually be useful.
And one will personally sabotage the baby’s sleep twice and then continue her evening as though she hasn’t committed a felony.
Together, the latter two are Dumb & Fuckin Stupider.
I still can’t tell you which is Dumb and which is Fuckin Stupider.
Like I said:
You choose.
They’ll probably switch places again before I finish proofreading this anyway.
As for Meatball?
She remains beautiful.
She remains loved beyond comprehension.
She remains the cutest tiny terrorist I’ve ever encountered.
And she remains deeply, profoundly, almost professionally disrespectful of sleep.
Which brings us back to the title.
Sleep is for people whose babies respect them.
Mine apparently have other plans.
Everyone survived.
I made coffee.
The baby remains disrespectful.
See you next time.
— EC 🌈
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