I have a new fear.

I call it the eye.

It’s hard to believe something so frightening belongs to someone as sweet as my newborn son, Henry.

I do everything I can to avoid the eye. I gently rock or nurse Henry to sleep, cradling him in my arms until he is in a deep slumber. Then, oh so carefully, I tiptoe towards his bassinet, cringing with every creak of the hardwood floors. With the care of a military bomb disposal expert, I ease Henry into his bed, careful not to jostle, shake or otherwise disturb the sleeping bundle.

Then, just as I am about to walk away, still holding my breath, the eye pops open. My son – moments earlier the picture of innocent, blissful slumber – is now wide awake. All I can do is sigh, scoop Henry into my arms and start all over.

There will come a day soon when Henry and I will start sleep training – a difficult, agonizing, but ultimately rewarding process. (A recent study found babies who are allowed to cry it out as part of sleep training – an often controversial method which many parents swear by – may in fact have more problems sleeping. That debate, however, is for another day.)

But for now, while Henry is too little to soothe himself to sleep, I will comfort him without complaint. Or, on some exhausting nights, a minimal amount of grumbling.

And some nights are definitely better than others. Henry was just eight days old when he slept for a six-hour stretch one night. It wasn’t the crying that woke up me and my husband; it was the lack of crying. We up sat in the dark at 2 a.m., debating whether we should rouse Henry for a feeding. Ultimately, we decided to let sleeping dogs lie, so to speak, and enjoy a peaceful night.

But for every peaceful night, there seems to be a sleepless night – or two. Just last night, it took three attempts – and a couple of hours – to settle Henry into bed just before midnight. Then, he was up every two hours, crying to be fed and comforted. After one particular feeding, Henry stayed up for another two hours, confusing night for day as many newborns do. I could barely keep my eyes open, my body aching to lie down, as I begged Henry to go back to sleep.

It’s the early morning hours that are the most difficult. I’ll look out the window at my street and I’ll see a row of dark houses. Mine is the only light that is on. I picture my neighbours tucked in their beds and I am envious. Once Henry is sound asleep, I race to my own bed, always optimistic that I won’t hear Henry for three, maybe four hours. It can be devastating to hear his cries and look at the clock to see only 90 minutes has passed.

I often need to remind myself these sleepless nights are short-lived. Before I know it – fingers crossed – Henry will be sleeping through the night and I’ll look back with fondness at the fleeting time when he was a newborn, small enough to curl up in the crook of my arm.