Its 5:30 am. The alarm clock shaped like a little person goes off. I glance at the monitor. Already, he has flipped himself on to his stomach, his arms still pinned in his swaddle. His face is smashed into the crib floor and he is getting angry. I go into his room hoping that I can nurse him back to sleep, but it is apparent that today is not my lucky day as he pulls off all giggle and coos. He shows off his new top teeth in his grin. As I change him, it becomes obvious why little guy is so happy. He has relieved himself of a giant poo. Of course he wasn’t going to go back to sleep, not when he has had the weight of the world lifted off of him.
Thirty minutes into play time, Baby F. has decided that it really is too early to be up and about. He is tired. He rubs his eyes and decides that he is unhappy with all of his toys. He doesn’t want to play contentedly on his back, tummy, or sitting up. He, instead, wants to climb all over mom and show how unsatisfied he is by pulling at my hair and biting my shoulder. I look at the clock and wonder how I am going to spend the next 2 hours before nap time. Although I was going to take the morning off due to my being tired, I decide that the only way to survive this morning is to kill some time outside running with the stroller. I get changed into my running gear, strap baby in the BOB, and head outdoors regardless the dark and the light rain falling.
At 7:30, I put an exhausted baby down for a nap. I take a shower and grab breakfast only to be interrupted towards the end by a call on the monitor. Baby has woken up. Forty minutes have passed. I wait, hoping against hope that he might settle himself down, but the nap gods are against me. Baby has flipped again--stuck like an overturned beetle and intervention is necessary.
Somehow, I make it to afternoon nap. A lunchtime visit from Mr. F. helps. I repeatedly thank the person who designed the Ergo--my own personal salvation. Not only does Baby get to be Close! To! Mom! the straps make excellent chew toys. Baby F. contentedly files down his teeth on the canvas as I unload the dishwasher, start some laundry, and do various other household tasks. As I put Baby down for another nap, I breathe a sigh of hallelujah. Now I can take a breather. Since he is so exhausted, surely he will sleep solidly for a couple of hours.
I grab some lunch. I decide to take the opportunity to rest on the couch. Just as my mind is slowly winding down, I hear a call. Baby F. is up again--40 minutes later. It is obvious that he is still very exhausted. I try to put him down again, only to have him cry piteously at me every time I lay him down. My brain and body have switched to survival mode: by whatever means necessary. I get comfortable in our slightly rickety glider, stick Baby on the boob, and hunker down for an unknown amount of time. Two hours later with a crick in my neck, a slightly raw boob, but a more-or-less well-rested baby, we emerge from the nursery.
Mr. F. comes home to a very happy child but a rather exhausted wife. “What are the plans for tonight?” he asks. I look at him blankly, the words taking a long time to register in my mind. It takes even longer to formulate the unhelpful reply, “I don’t know.” Part of my mind tells me to get up and start dinner or to just get up and do the 20 things staring me in the face that needs doing, but I have no energy to call upon. I can barely find the energy to ask Mr. F. to check Baby’s bum. My suspicions are correct, the sounds I had heard not too long ago did indicate another poopy diaper. I show no shame or remorse in letting Mr. F. change the diaper. Nor do I put up a fight when Mr. F. indicates that he will take charge of dinner tonight. I think to myself, “This is why I married a man who cooks.”
And now it is 8:30. It is time to turn off the computer, turn off the lights, and start the process of getting to bed. 5:30 comes quickly and there is no guarantee that tomorrow will be any different than today.