The first year of a child's life is a battle. A war that has been going on since we were all covered in hair and living in caves (thousands of years ago or last summer depending on the family). A war between this demanding, cooing, self-centered, giggling beast/baby and its sacrificing, loving, doting parents. And the first casualty of this war is sleep.

Tiny Bits is our third child, so this is no surprise. We've seen his every trick to deprive us of sleep with our first two kids: refusing to go to sleep, waking up early for no reason, the utter lack of any kind of sleep schedule, just to name a few of the more popular ones. Some mornings he seems to say, "Hey, just because I just woke up doesn't mean I don't need to go back to sleep for three more hours," or the next day he'll giggle, "Silly Daddy, just because I've not slept all day doesn't mean I need a nap. It's Drooly Laugh-Fest 2010 time! Now, get with the funny, old man!"

I got back into the sleep defensive pretty quickly after he was born. I could fall asleep on a moment's notice, anywhere, for I knew the 20 minutes I got passed out on the couch might be the difference between me making it through the night with my sanity intact and having a psychotic episode at 3 in the morning. And getting enough sleep wasn't the only thing I had to watch out for; how I fell asleep was almost important as the sleep itself. My body, afraid shifting in bed might wake me, would do a great impression of the dead the moment I passed out. I knew falling asleep with my arms underneath me or my neck at a weird angle would mean I could wake up with two arms or a neck that would not move. It's hard to pick up a crying child with hunks of meat that used to be your arms hanging from your shoulders.

Months and months of little or no sleep, at most three hours in a row, had taken its toll on my wife and me. I find myself feeling sleep deprivation isn't just torture but the greatest crime one can perpetrate against fellow man.

Which is why the other day was so terrifying.

The moment my eyes opened I knew something was wrong. I pulled my face from the pillow, glued there by a pool of drool a bulldog would be proud of, and looked around the room. Something was strange ... I could see colors and definite shapes. The light streaming in from the window was not the orange glow from the lights in the alley I was so used to but something resembling daylight. Could it be?

I grabbed my glasses and stumbled to the window. Lo and behold, there was the sun, climbing over my neighbors' homes and spreading its light and warmth to the world. Shrouded in the constant smoke leaking from the Busch brewery, it announced to all that a new day had come. A beautiful sight; so why was I terrified? I was well-rested but sore, as if I had been lying in the same position for many hours. Then I knew it: the baby. The baby had not made a sound all night and there was only one explanation for that: Our baby was dead.

I rushed to the children's room, sure our little one would be cold and blue. I sprang to the crib to find him curled into a ball, diapered butt high in the sky. So, I thought, he died as he lived: cutely. I picked him up, holding my little one in my arms for the last time.

And miracles of miracles, he started to squirm and then to wail! He had slept through the night and not died even a little bit. He was hungry, yes, and willing to tell the world all about it, but soon he was in his mother's arms, nursing and feeling all the world was a perfect place. My wife and I looked at each other and smiled, our 10-month struggle was at an end.

And just to prove children make a liar of you from day one, the next night he woke up five times.