Last night was a difficult night. I’m talking up 5 times, no more than 1-2 hours of sleep at a time kind of difficult.
Something was clearly bothering her. She had a bad case of the screamies – which isn’t normal. Most of the time, if she has a bad night, she is just awake and wants to party. But last night? No partying for her. She was ticked.
And somewhere amidst the rocking, cuddling, gripe water, singing, bum patting, tears and other futile attempts to soothe my baby and get her back to sleep – I got frustrated and discouraged.
Now I know in my head that her rough night could have been caused by teething, a sore tummy, being too hot, being too cold, or something else or something else or something else.
But sometimes, in the thick of it, you feel like it’s your fault. Like you are doing something entirely wrong. And that’s how I felt last night.
So I woke the hubby. Scratch that. I tried to wake the hubby.
I told him I needed help. I didn’t know what was wrong with her. I didn’t know what I was doing wrong. I felt like this was my fault.
“Don’t worry Babe. She’s just a baby. She is growing and shrinking. Growing and shrinking”. And he rolled over.
Well – the growing part I was aware of. But the shrinking?
I was unaware that my baby was shrinking and that this may or may not cause her to sleep poorly. I’ll have to tuck that one away for future sleepless nights.
Needless to say, my dead-to-the-world-doesn’t-hear-a-thing-and-talks-like-crazy-in-his-sleep husband was impossible to wake up last night.
At least his shrinking baby explanation lightened my mood a bit and gave me something to (kind of) laugh about.