I feel like a real shit-heel for complaining about how tired I am all the time.
Pretty much everyone I know has more than one child. Or they are currently pregnant with another child, while simultaneously wrangling the first child (effectively rendering naps more extinct then the Velociraptor). Or they gave birth to multiple babies at one time (I would just buy stock in Grey Goose if that were the case).
I have one measly baby. A forthemostpart well-behaved baby at that. He doesn't really cry that much. Only to alert me of his insatiable appetite. He naps well...the majority of the time. The other part of the time he just looks at me and smiles, like I am the coolest person on the planet.
I have nothing to complain about. So please ignore me and try not to throw your shoes at the computer when I start to complain about how tired I am.
Like I'm about to do right now...
In an effort to prove to myself that I am only 27 and not 72, I stayed up until 10:30 last night. Reading a book. I wasn't pounding shots of Jager or dancing on a bar somewhere; I was reading Nora Robert's latest romance series on my Kindle (my new love).
So when the intelligent 0.1% of my brain started screaming at me to go to bed because I was going to be a raving bitch when Henry woke up to eat. I listened. I tried.
Michael has a cold. And a nasty cough, that lucky for me (and him, I suppose) flairs up at night. So in between his hacking fits I decided to sleep in the spare bedroom (after I offered to get him some cough syrup...a cough drop...a nine-millimeter. You know like a good wife).
The spare bedroom does not have my beloved fan for white noise. It does however have the capability to turn our chorus of neighborhood dog barking into a real concert-like experience. I didn't want a ticket to that show. But I got one anyway.
As I was turning into a human popsicle the cats decided to start dueling each other on top of my body. Lucky for me the winning prize was a prime spot sleeping on my neck. Fatty won, so my windpipe almost collapsed and I nearly died. Twice.
Then Henry started fussing...in his sleep. Completely asleep. I don't know what he could be dreaming about...an empty bottle? Any who, it's absolutely pitiful and impossible to ignore.
That brings us to about 2:00 am. I decided it was safe to move back into our bedroom. My husband (the one with the black lung), was faaaast asleep. Henry was sound asleep. I thought to myself, maybe I can salvage this night.
Henry started fussing at 2:30, but he was still asleep for the most part. So, again like a good mother, I tried to pop the paci back in...and ignore it.
By 2:58 there was no doubt, he was fully awake and ready to eat. Lucky me!
Once we finished with that chore he fell right back asleep, as per his usual. I thought, okay now we're cookin' with gas. That should get me off the hook until at least 7:30.
I had to get up...let us just say multiple times, and leave it at that. The paci would fall out and wake him up, so then I had to get up and walk into his room. Make it all better. Walk back to our room, get in bed, get comfortable. And then hear him start up again.
Shitity, shit, shit, shit. (I'm sorry, I don't swear like this around Henry. That is what the blog is for).
So finally he fell asleep, as I think he was sensing I was nearing complete insanity.
Then Skinny decided to lay on my chest and chew his toes, whilst Fatty got on top of my dresser and one by one knocked my glasses, lotion, pill bottle and two chap sticks to the floor. So I had to get up and go downstairs to feed him. That was the root of the issue. Even though the two bowls were full of food. He enjoys a few fresh kernels straight from the bag as a midnight snack.
I believe this probably brings us to about 4:00 am. Michael wakes up and tells me he had a dream that Henry was a girl and he wanted his new name to be Nickalodeon. But I wanted it to be Henrietta, however, in the dream I pronounced it Henri-atta.
So an indeterminable amount of time later I fell asleep.
15 minutes later brings us to 6:40 am. When Henry woke up, fresh as a daisy. Ready to greet the day. And eat, of course.