My mind picked up on the baby whimper coming over the monitor on the nightstand, but it incorporated it into my dream instead of advising me to wake up.

Then her shriek reached that part of my brain that shoots out my left arm directly into my husband’s back. “Hey,” my half-asleep brain said, “can you please go quiet her?” I believe I said thanks when he came back in after re-wrapping her in that Velcro blanket that resembles a straight jacket, but I may have dreamt that nicety.

Ah, blissful sleep. I nestled my head further between two pillows.

Why not? I don’t have a baby with sleeping problems. Nooo, not my baby, my precious little Lucy, who sleeps through the night regularly and rarely fusses and cuddles like a schmootzie-tootsie-all that horrific babble that escapes my mouth when I’m squeezing her cheeks.

Only 45 minutes or so later – around 2:30 a.m. – I couldn’t lay still and pretend not to ignore the angry screams coming from her bedroom. No one could. If you were wondering what that sound was the other night? That? No, some madman wasn’t torturing a dozen cats. No, the only madman was an 11-week-old. Sorry!

“Here, shhhhh, take your binky,” I soothed.

But, sadly, that was not my reaction at 3:30. Or 3:45. Or 4:45. Cranky Erin in her best form resorted to whisper-hissed variations of “For the love of all things holy, TAKE THE BINKY. TAKE IT. PLEASE.”

I fed her at 4:45, which is of course what I should’ve just done at 2:30. At 5:15 I peeled a sleeping baby off my lap with more care than bomb squads give to live explosives.

The relief I felt while sliding back into bed was electric. Had I not been in a hurry to sleep, I’d have wept at the beauty of pillows and blankets and 45 minutes of coma-like deep sleeping.

But this is real life, not some cutesy parenting magazine where all the best-laid plans and most gently laid down babies stay sleeping.

“MAMA! MAMA, ABBY ‘WAKE!” came the happy squeal from the doorway of Abby’s room. Five minutes later, Lucy joined in, a little less happy.

Ugh: My fantasies of sleep crashed, burned and died there. Please: moment of silence.

I dragged myself to the girls’ dresser and pulled out clothes, resigned to a day of puffy eyes.

“I Love Mommy!” proclaimed the shirt I’d grabbed for Lucy and handed to Dave, who was groggily changing the baby’s diaper. Awww, right? NO.

“No, give me that back. She’s wearing something else,” I said. “CLEARLY she does NOT love her mommy.”

And that’s how I’m passing along my passive-aggressiveness to my children. It’s a lasting legacy. One best perfected on no sleep.