Well I'm wide awake and baby manchild is snoozing in his swing. Yesterday was horrendous with him crying nearly relentlessly. He would wake after five minutes of sleep, leaving the Daddy-man and me ready to rip our ears off. There is a certain insanity that occurs when an adult has been harrassed by a small child for 10 consecutive hours. You begin the process of personification of the child, that is, endow him with characteristics that aren't his own by nature. Of course, maybe that is only true with animals...that definition of personification...but I digress, as usual.
So we began asking this 7-week-child, feeling that he'd be able to answer in full and complete sentences, "What is wrong? Tell me what's wrong." And he'd say, "Gaa!" to which we'd say, "Is it your tummy?" And he'd respond, "Gaaaaa!" and we'd say, "Are you sleepy?" And he'd scream, "GAAAHHH!" So clearly, we need to find out what "Gaah" means. He did finally give up on us and our ignorance around midnight. Poor tike probably thought he was getting a sweet deal with already broken-in parents. Now he probably thinks he was given the stupid ones by accident.
After yesterday's high stress, I've been running on high. Not wanting to rest, for fear it will be ripped away from me without any notice. Not dare trying to do anything even remotely elaborate, knowing how I get so involved, I will be devastated when pried from my task at hand. We used to have to give B1 a five-minute warning when it was time to leave a place (Grandma's house, the store's toy aisle, etc.) or he'd have a fit worthy of an anorexic supermodel whose been told to lay off the cocaine. I now realize that he probably got that from me...and that I, if given a choice, would like a warning to prep my brain for the transition.
Today, having been shell-shocked by yesterday, I've barely touched down in reality. I float through the day, waiting to be rang harshly by my mini-master. I try not to think too much. I've nearly forgotten what it's like to be able to decide what I would like to do on a weekend. That's a welcome relief, as the memory only tormented me.
Yup, this is definitely baby bootcamp all over again. But this time I prep myself with mass doses of caffeine. I have an equation that goes something like: For each child one raises, one should get a corresponding espresso shot. For larger families, I'd suggest spacing the espresso dosages out rather than doing them in one latte. 'Cause I'd have to believe, from personal experience, that doing so would only land you on the toilet for the lion's share of the day. And although that would give one moderate peace and quiet (see post about G4 serenading moi with Feliz Navidad while I was heeding nature's call), I still don't think it would be the restful weekend a body needs.
It's been suggested that my coffee-drinking might, perhaps, maybe, could be the result of baby manchild's restlessness and irritability. I think not. See, this is a case of which came first-the chicken or the egg? And I'll tell you I have the answer to this question, at last. The irritable, colicky egg came first and the chicken, at her wit's end and fatigued beyond desperation followed a week or two after with her trusty cup of caffeine. But he's a cute, adorable, colicky irritable egg and I love him so. Clearly I'm demonstrating signs of Stockholm syndrome.
Now that I've blogged some, that gives me some measure of personal satisfaction and I can go to sleep with a smirk on my face that for one moment this weekend, I got away with a purely selfish treat.
