My landlords, who live downstairs, had a baby in June, Petit Victor. So he’s about six months now. Or, apparently the age when his parents are ready to let him wail and howl forever in their effort to get him to sleep through the night.
As luck would have it, his bedroom is right below mine and this new situation is causing me as much angst—due to middle-of-the-night wake-up calls—as the thugs on rue Saint-Dennis.
My jet-lag wasn’t so bad after this past week’s return from the states, but the couple times Victor has woken me up has me dreaming of the 10-hour night of sleep I caught in Connecticut, where it is so calm, comfortable, peaceful and quiet.