I had a post in my head last night, all planned out and everything. However, I was in bed when I did that planning. As an experienced writer, I long ago learned to keep a notebook and a pen by the bed for such occasions. Last night, I opted to just try and remember the post instead of reaching three feet across the bed and possibly touching the land mine, I mean my son.
You see, he was asleep.
Prior to that moment, he had not been asleep for nearly sixteen hours straight.
Those of you shuddering in sympathy agony obviously have a baby.
The night BEFORE last, my husband and I were dancing around the bedroom like idiots, because our son achieved a milestone previously reserved for the greatest and strongest of our entire species. No other baby ever achieved such magnitude, no other parents ever experienced such exultation. His first tooth came in. And by "came in" I mean "half a millimeter of enamel was above the gumline."
The miracle, of course, is that he didn't cry. He wasn't feverish. He appeared to cut that first tooth completely effortlessly. And then yesterday happened.
He woke up cheerful, and when the first naptime came around, he was still cheerful. He had his milk and drifted peacefully away. I was downstairs writing when we heard him chirp... twenty minutes after falling asleep. Uh... usually that first nap is two hours. We didn't worry - we were on our way to Grandma's house for family time, and that hour long car ride is good for catching up on naps.
Only he didn't catch anything but the view from his car seat.
We tried putting him down for a nap three times during the visit, as he got steadily more and more cranky from exhaustion. All attempts failed, although each time we snuggled up, he nursed greedily. His cousin was peaceful and charming, and our shrieking, squalling, red faced rageaholic was looking even worse by comparison. Finally, we bailed. He seemed to fall asleep before we hit the end of the driveway, but every time I checked the mirror, his eyes fluttered open.
"Mama, for god's sake, I'm wiped out, help me," ran the entreaties from his baggy eyes.
As soon as we got home, we did the bedtime routine. No dice. We fed him sweet potatoes, took a walk, sang songs, offered chilled teething rings, rocked, danced, and left him alone (the latter being a trick that almost always works when all else is failing). Through it all, he cried, and made the sign for "milk" over and over.
"I do not think that means what you think it means," I said to my desperate son, considering he was frantically making the sign WHILE ATTACHED to my breast.
At 11:30 PM, despite his not appearing to be in pain or particularly chewing on anything besides my nipples, we threw up our hands and gave him a shot of infant Tylenol. I snuggled him up and let him nurse from the side I'd been "reserving" for two hours just to make sure there was something there.
At 11:33 PM, I had my brilliant blog post idea. Then I looked down.
You wouldn't have reached for the notebook either.