(Last night’s scattered post, brought to you by the letter B.)
Can’t connect to internet and am feeling v. sorry for self. Baby is sleeping, finally, but I’m going stir crazy. I haven’t had a break all day. I’ve either been wresting with a whiny baby or pointedly not wrestling with a whiny baby or trying to no avail to get whiny baby to take a nap, since it’s clear he desperately needed one. Then there was the incident with the Chex Mix, which is currently all over our living room floor (after having been stomped into a fine grit by one Whiny Baby, Esq.). At that point, I didn’t even care anymore. “Apparently he’s having some Chex Mix,” I deadpanned as my child began tossing it by the handful. “At least he’s not screaming,” added Not So. And that’s my parenting story for the day.
Oh, waah, poor me. I’m just glad he’s finally down. He’s very tired, and tired babies are not happy babies. He’s been sleeping abominably, which is to say better than when he was cutting molars but not anything resembling “well.” I’ve been staying up much too late because when he finally does go down I’m a) jangled and b) jonesing to get some work done. Which I’d be doing right now, but the laptop and the internet have not been on speaking terms since we hooked up the Apple TV downstairs. (Love the lovely Apple TV, but that’s another story.)
I’d like to work. I’d like to take a bath, maybe change out of the sweats I’ve been wearing all day and into some fresh sweats, for some variety. I’d like to eat some more M&Ms and not think about the baby for a little while. Don’t get me wrong. I like the baby. I like thinking about the baby, talking about the baby, talking TO the baby. But he’s really been relentless today, what with the screaming fits and the whining and the demanding to be held (and then demanding to be put down) and refusing to nap. I get that this is hard for him, this almost-but-not-quite talking, but it’s hard for me, too. He tries to communicate, fails, gets frustrated and screams. I try to understand him, fail, get screamed at. This, my friends? This is a no-win situation.
He’s snuggled up in bed now, all long eyelashes and soft baby-snores. I know the minute I get up and, say, run a bath, he’ll stir, realize I’m not there, and start freaking out. Even if I run back in, he’ll be all overwrought and inconsolable and the only way I’ll be able to get him down again is to nurse and then physically wrap myself around him until he falls back asleep. Even if I stay in bed, the odds that he’ll stay sound asleep are pretty slim. He always, every single night, wakes up at 10:30-11 and freaks out for a while. Some nights the nursing thing works; some nights it doesn’t. But he never skips his 11pm wakeup.
The nursing thing is getting to me, too. Something about being always on. Last night, after Happy Fun Baby’s fifth or sixth wakeup (during which he would not be comforted by anything except the Magic Boob) I actually told him “You don’t need to nurse every freaking hour! You can just sleep!” Naturally the baby ignored me, but I felt somewhat like the Bad Mama you read about on the internet, chastising her child for unreasonable things. The Magic Boobs, though, they are getting mighty sick of being the end-all, be-all source of comfort, food, entertainment and sleep. The Magic Boobs want to stay inside their tee-shirt for one night and not have to work for a living. The Magic Boobs, they are tired.