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Perhaps nothing is as eye opening for a parent than waking up one day and discovering that your sweet little baby could very well be evil. This is what I have come to realize about our 7-month old son Harrison. He is, by most accounts, the sweetest little baby in the world, certainly much cuter than YOUR baby, who, if you don’t mind me saying, looks a bit like E.T.

However, come bedtime, the sweetness gives way to a more sinister side. Not sinister in a way that I fear some lady named Rosemary is going to come over to claim that he is her son. He’s sinister because of his refusal to accept the realities of bedtime. More importantly, he’s sinister because of his refusal to accept the realities of bedtime with me in particular.

You see, with my wife Laurie, he is a model baby when it comes to bedtime. At the same time every night she takes him upstairs and puts him in his crib. He’s still awake when she takes him upstairs, but she does some kind of voodoo-baby whisperer magic (or perhaps it is the Vulcan nerve pinch) and seconds later he is sound asleep for the entire night.

He doesn’t do that for me. For starters, I cannot put him in his crib when is fully awake because he tends to protest. Eventually, he falls asleep in my arms. But the second I put him in his crib, he wakes back up. We repeat this several times until my wife swoops in, utters a disgusted “Move!” like the computer technician in the Saturday Night Live sketch, and successfully gets him to sleep.

Thanks to her, we all manage to get a full night’s sleep. However, last weekend when Laurie took a mini-vacation by spending the night at her mom’s, leaving me to care for both boys, I had to fend for myself.

It was not a successful endeavor.

11 p.m.: First attempt at putting Harrison down. He is fully asleep. The second I put him down, he cries. The second I pick him up, he stops. Down, cries. Up, stops. I repeat this several time, making a little song out of it. My musical fun ends when Forrest, who is seven years old, charges into the baby’s room like an elderly neighbor upset over the stereo being played too loudly and demands that I stop since he is trying to sleep. I apologize and take Harrison downstairs with me, asleep in my arms.

Midnight: With Harrison asleep in my arms, I log into my Facebook account and play a game of Scrabble against two people who are very, very good and have way more points than I do. Just for yuks, I put down tiles to form the word “TREENAIL” that stretches across two triple word spaces. Imagine my surprise when the computer says that TREENAIL is a valid word. I have no idea what it is, but it earns me 122 points and eventually helps me win the game. If we have another baby, his or her name will be TREENAIL.

2 a.m. While I can play online Scrabble with one hand, I cannot, however, open a bottle of Alaskan Amber. I curse my inadequacies. I consider waking Forrest up, but in the back of my mind I recall reading an article in a parenting magazine that frowned upon waking small children up in the middle of the night for the purposes of having them assist you with the opening of alcoholic beverages.

3 a.m. After another unsuccessful attempt of putting Harrison down, I head back downstairs and stare at the telephone. I am hoping that it does not ring. Like a lot of Americans, I worry about the phone ringing at 3 a.m. these days, thanks to the fear mongering of Hillary Clinton. With all due respect to Hillary, I don’t think it’s fair to imply that she is the best person to answer the phone at 3 a.m. I don’t think any of the three candidates are. I would think that at 3 a.m. that any one of them would be in such a deep sleep that if the phone rang, they would all be equally confused. McCain would attempt to answer his slipper. Clinton would yell at Bill to answer it, warning him that it better not be one of his “hussy girlfriends.”

I also don’t think that Obama is the best person to answer the phone. You know who is? The guy working the night shift at the local Qwik-E-Mart. This is a guy who is used to being alert at 3 a.m. This is a guy who has to respond to a number of crises while the rest of us are slumbering. Slurpee machine jammed up? He’s on it. Have to count out a baggie full of pennies from some stoner buying nachos? He can take care of it. My advice to the next president is when they go to sleep at night, forward the phone to the nearest Qwik-E-Mart and let some guy jazzed upon on Rockstar take the call from Musharef.

4 a.m. Still cannot set him down. Using my one hand I open the phone book to the yellow pages to see if I can find a listing for any gypsies who might be interested in purchasing a baby.

4:30 a.m. Flicking through the channels, I stumble across “Breakfast at Tiffanys” on HBO. “I am not going to watch this stupid movie,” I growl to Harrison.

6:30 a.m. End credits for “Breakfast at Tiffanys” roll up the screen. If we ever have another baby, and she is a girl, I will name her “Holly Treenail Golightly.”

6:45 a.m. Just for kicks, I try to put Harrison down one more time. Imagine my surprise when he remains asleep! I ever so quietly tip toe out of the room and head to my own bed, where I immediately collapse. Free at last! Free at last! Time to enjoy the pleasure of some sleep …

7 a.m. I am awakened by a small hand shaking my shoulder.

“Dad?” says Forrest.

“Gnorx,” I reply.

“Dad, I’m awake now. You said last night you would get up with me and watch ‘Mythbusters’, remember?”

“Spltrickr,” I reply.

“Dad! Come on!” he demands.

Sighing, I crawl out of bed and follow him to the living room where “Mythbusters” was just starting. I watch the best I can in my sleep deprived state, awaiting the first commercial so that I can do a Google search for gypsies in the Fairbanks area who might be interested a two-for-one deal.