AREA MOTHER MISSES OBVIOUS SOLUTION TO ALL OF LIFE'S PROBLEMS
So a few days ago I randomly decided that Ezra was Over Swaddling. I'd wrap him up and he'd kick and fight and make his little frowny-face and go PEH PEH RA RA WAAAAAH and I'd hastily start yanking on all the flaps and dig him out lest he get REALLY good an pissed off, although it was usually too late.
So I stopped trying. And guess what! He stopped sleeping! At all! Ever! No naps, no nice stretch of a few hours at night, just hour after hour with a high-maintenance, demanding infant (I KNOW, RIGHT?) who would not let me put him down for a minute without ramping up into ear-splitting screams.
Things cratered on Monday. Ezra was obviously exhausted and would not go to sleep. I tried swings and bouncies and cribs and mobiles and toys and slings and carriers and pacifiers. Scream scream scream. He nursed non-stop, not really to eat, but to fall asleep after a few sucks, but if I tried to move him, scream scream scream. Scream. Unearthly, unholy screams. I got so baffled I mixed up a bottle of formula and fed him that, hoping that a nice, easy, steady influx of milk would finally get him to sleep.
It didn't. I paced around the house, bouncing him in my freaking. aching. arms. for hours, hushing, singing, asking him ever-so-politely just what the FUCK his problem was. Jason had barely made it through the front door when I shoved the baby at him and fled to go do something more blissful, like laundry. I heard Jason moving towards the swing, clearly still oblivious to what I'd been sending him increasingly non-sensical emails about all day, and I cackled maniacly, counted to three and I swear, the basement ceiling insulation shook with the force of that child's screams. I heard Jason say something like, "Whoa. Dude."
And he just never really went to sleep. He fussed and fretted all night, waking up every hour or so to nurse, and seemed to have more trouble than usual soothing himself back to sleep. I started making out a will in my head, because oh my God, I am going to die. I think I might want to die.
Tuesday morning it all started again, and that's when I saw a discarded Miracle Blanket on the floor and grabbed it. As I started to wrap him up I realized that...hmmm...his legs are getting a little long for the foot pouch, I wonder what would happen if I just swaddle his arms?
(I know y'all are on the edge of seats right now. I JUST KNOW IT.)
He smiled, sighed, and BAM. Sound asleep. For hours. Last night he slept straight through the night. He took another nap this morning. Awake does not equal screaming! He's smiling again! All because...oh Jesus, it's all too dumb and obvious to even sum up in a pithy little manner.
Dudes, I don't know what she's going on about. Like, ME? What?
Look at me. LOOK AT ME. Do I look like I could ever morph into a screaming hellmonster? I do not think so.
NOM NOM DELICIOUS FIREFLY SOUL NOM
In a totally unrelated note, Ezra is 12 weeks old today. Which means in another life, I'd be headed back to an office today. (Maybe. If I still even had a job, since OH HI STOCK MARKET. WHAT'S UP? NOT YOU!)
(Financial editor joke! I've got dozens of 'em!)
In another life, I would have read today's post on another blog and thanked my lucky stars that I was not stuck at home day after day with a screaming baby and a high-maintenance three-year-old, that there were not diapers and burp rags in my Coach bag and that I did not have to ever deal with so much poop and penis and snot or write about putting panty liners in my bra or pregnancy double chins.
And now I thank my lucky stars that I do.