Bad Night
What a bad night. It started at 11pm and lasted until 11am. Anna slept a total of an hour and a half, which by default, means that I slept an hour and a half. It was 12 hours of what we were going through in the evenings last week. I called the pediatrician this morning, just to make sure this was normal.
I described the gassiness, wailing, fussiness and crunching up. The nurse said, "Sounds like classic colic." I said, "NO! I didn't plan on having a colicky baby! In fact, I planned on not having a colicky baby!" She laughed and said, "Well, it should be gone by about three months." Three months?! Hey hey! Ellen did not sign on for this!
I asked her if there was anything I could do and she said, "Get some help. You're going to need it."
Hrm.
Last night, around three or so, I decided that I was the worst mother in the world. Three o'clock in the morning with no sleep and a gassy, crying baby can do that to you, I suppose. Around four o'clock, while pumping my breasts with my two hands and rocking Anna's infant carrier with my foot (and stinking up the joint, as I am covered in poo and spit-up), I revised my decision. No! I am the best mother in the world! I am the Queen Mother. I rock. I am subjecting my nipples to torture seven times a day for this child. I am going 12 hours with no sleep for this child. I am still somehow able to kiss her sweaty head, even while she is screeching.
Of course, the light of dawn caused me to revise my decision back to worst mother in the world, but at least I had one moment of enlightenment.
I described the gassiness, wailing, fussiness and crunching up. The nurse said, "Sounds like classic colic." I said, "NO! I didn't plan on having a colicky baby! In fact, I planned on not having a colicky baby!" She laughed and said, "Well, it should be gone by about three months." Three months?! Hey hey! Ellen did not sign on for this!
I asked her if there was anything I could do and she said, "Get some help. You're going to need it."
Hrm.
Last night, around three or so, I decided that I was the worst mother in the world. Three o'clock in the morning with no sleep and a gassy, crying baby can do that to you, I suppose. Around four o'clock, while pumping my breasts with my two hands and rocking Anna's infant carrier with my foot (and stinking up the joint, as I am covered in poo and spit-up), I revised my decision. No! I am the best mother in the world! I am the Queen Mother. I rock. I am subjecting my nipples to torture seven times a day for this child. I am going 12 hours with no sleep for this child. I am still somehow able to kiss her sweaty head, even while she is screeching.
Of course, the light of dawn caused me to revise my decision back to worst mother in the world, but at least I had one moment of enlightenment.
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