Powergirl and I like to extol our little baby for her mysterious good-natured approach to life. She hardly ever cries. She’s more agreeable than most grown-ups. And she can adapt to pretty much any new situation.

Imagine our surprise, then, when she couldn’t get to sleep Christmas Eve (at my inlaws’ house), and proceeded to cry the ENTIRE night.

This is no exaggeration. Poor L cried just about incessantly from 1 to 7 a.m. It was ugly. It was sleepless. And for me, especially after a few glasses of wine and an ill-advised NyQuil (I’ve got this lingering cold, a Christmas ritual for my sinuses), it was arguably one of the most brutal nights of my life.

A sleepless night on Christmas Eve made for a pretty forgettable Christmas. Between the fog of drugs and the haze of no sleep, I pretty much doubled as Ebenezer Scrooge all day.

(You can only imagine how well that went over with Powergirl, who managed to get a tad more sleep than I.)

Sure, it was a (short-lived) moment of joy to see L in her first-ever Christmas dress. And yes, as always, it was fun to be in the company of family on the big day. Despite all of this, I’m sorry to report that pretty much the only thing I wanted all day was a warm, quiet bed.

The lesson here: just when you think you’ve got the hang of this whole parenthood thing, these little buggers throw you for a loop. Ultimately (as in, last night), we discovered that L was crying because she a) was cold and b) has become too big for her travel crib. These were costly lessons. Next Christmas, we’ll be ready for everything.