Week 11: Why we forgive him

Man, this week’s batch of Eli photos is extra adorable. Witness:

And maybe a little of this:

And oh, yeah, how about a little mom’s-group-babies-all-in-a-row action? BOOM:

Now, these and other photos (cute new outfits, blowing bubbles, visit to the Festival of Greece, airplane with daddy, podcasting with mommy, etc.) are the reason why Eli still gets to live at our house. Because let me be clear: none of these photos is of Nighttime Eli.

Nighttime Eli remains a terrifyingly whimsical creature I’ve named “The Tornado.” You never know when he’s going to hit. You don’t know how long he’ll cry. It could be an hour, it could be three hours. He might not cry at all during the Deadly Triangle of 7 p.m. to 10 p.m., but then he’ll wake up every two hours, crying for 90 minutes at a stretch. Or he’ll scream from 7 to 10 straight, but sleep eight hours. The time, duration, and ferocity of The Tornado are utterly impossible to predict. Each night we play a wonderful game of “which exhausted, stressed-out, sore-armed parent will walk Nighttime Eli relentlessly up and down the house this hour?” And don’t you stop … oh, no, don’t you dare stop. Stopping is the trailer park to Nighttime Eli’s Tornado. It’s the one thing certain to draw down the storm. And when we finally crawl into bed, roughly 10 minutes after he finally falls asleep (even if it’s only 8 p.m.), we whisper our sad little good-nights and then joke, half-heartedly, “See you in 15 minutes.” Sometimes, my friends, it’s true.

But then, see, here’s what happens. Morning comes:

And, you know, I mean, look at that! What’re you gonna do!? Keep walking, that’s what. Just keep walking.