Or, in our case, until you have an 11-week-old son that doesn't sleep for more than three or four hours at a time. EVER.
By the eight-week mark, Pearyn had already slept an entire night for the first time. A few weeks later, she was sleeping a six or seven hour interval at night, coupled with another three or four hour snooze. Grant it, she didn't sleep much during the day, but she was also content just hanging out on a blanket eating her feet and trying to grab stuff.
Braeburn on the other hand, hates his parents. I'm pretty sure his one goal in life is to ensure that we never, ever sleep again and that he remains the baby of the family. Because even if someone told me there was only a one out of 10 chance of having another baby with all of Brae's tummy woes and grumpy-man fits, I would tell them that was one too many.
If I could birth a toddler, I would. I seriously, seriously would.
This baby junk is just plain frustrating. We've seen the light at the end of the tunnel, we've seen better days, but then I go and open my big fat mouth and sure enough we have a continuous streak of crapola days.
The problem is that my husband and I have clung so desperately to the light at the end of the tunnel arriving when our baby boy hit three months (the usual time when 'colic' dissipates). While we're still two weeks out, I'm starting to feel like there isn't any end in sight.
My husband takes the graveyard shift. He's stays up with Braeburn from the time sissy and I go to bed through one, two sometimes three a.m. (Keep in mind I've told him numerous times to wake me up when he's ready to change shifts, but he insists on not turning himself in until he's laid Brae down for the night as well). Sure, there are catnaps scattered in there, where he holds Braeburn and they sleep in the recliner for two hours or so. I get up with Braeburn for the early-morning shifts, anytime between three and seven, sometimes early enough that we can sneak another wink in there, sometimes early enough but Brae decides to just fuss or stare at my face for hours on end.
So when we finally get our little man to sleep, trust me when I say that you don't want to be the asshole that wakes him up.
Case and point a few days ago: my husband's butthole cell phone. Yeah, it's all cool and sophisticated and all that jazz, but it doesn't seem that badass when it's waking our just-fell-asleep son at five in the morning because there's an Amber Alert three states over. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a fan of children being abducted or going missing, but I don't think we need to be alerted of it 19 times in a row with a really annoying, crap-your-pants loud alarm.
And let's not leave out the humidifier. Because we had to go and have a winter baby, our little guy has battled his fair share of colds over the last 11 weeks. We've basically let the humidifier set up camp in our room, as it helps keep his head clear and it provides some nice background noise in case you need to breathe without waking the baby. Apparently, however, the humidifier is rebelling on us; instead of being a source of comfort, it's turned into this loud, desperate chick gulping water as loud as it can to get attention. And when it gulps, Braeburn twitches and spazzes and little pieces of mommy and daddy's souls die.
And don't you dare think about coughing, sneezing or letting loose any other bodily function while the beast is sleeping. He especially dislikes coughing. Most times at night I run out of the room sprinting if I need to let out a cough. If for some reason I can't make it to the hallway in time, I usually suffocate myself a pillow in an attempt to keep Braeburn from stirring.
Once upon a time I used to think my husband and daughter's sleep talking and snoring was a disturbance. Now, I go into ninja-panther-mom mode when one of them starts prattling off nonsense in the middle of a deep slumber, because heaven forbid one of their midnight, sleeptalking rants wake Braeburn.
And don't even get me started on door-to-door people. I don't care if you're selling magical unicorns that grant me three wishes at the low, low price of 99 cents, if you bother me when I'm trying to get Braeburn to sleep, when he is asleep, when he's awake, basically if you bother me at all you're going to have your head bitten off. Particularly when you ring the doorbell, open the screen door, knock on the front door and then repeat the same routine three times in a row. Take the hint buddy, either I'm not home or I'm home and I don't want to talk to you. And at the off chance I answer the door, do not proceed to sell me some garbage while you notice me trying to feed my baby or make him shut the hell up. Or else you're going to come in and be responsible for making him shut the hell up. While I take your money.
So three months may not be the magic number for Braeburn. Maybe it'll be three months and one week. Maybe it'll be three years and one day. I don't know. All I can do is hope for the best, prepare for the worst and rant like crazy on my blog.
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