I sleep like a log (if logs could sleep), but my husband is the worst sleeper ever: he has to run a fan, use ear plugs, have special darkness shades on the windows, and put a pillow over his head. Even when it’s twenty degrees outside, the fan is running. Sometimes he moves to the spare room in the basement so he can be in a cave-like space (and that at least gives me a night where I’m not afraid to move or cough or otherwise disturb his tenuous sleep). When he was a kid, he suffered from sleep issues and would stand in the hallway outside his parents room, saying “I can’t sleep.” His father would yell back, “Of course you can’t, you’re standing in the hallway instead of getting into your bed!” When our kids were born, I realized that much of his sleep dysfunction came from his mother, who constantly worried about whether the baby should be sleeping (and I mean constantly–I began to think she didn’t like being around babies very much, since she always wanted them put to bed.) Years later, I inherited the baby book she kept for my husband, and every single entry for the first year of his life (when the book stopped) detailed how much sleep he had gotten, what time he took a nap, and how much sleep she got. There was not one entry on the joy of having a new baby.