Tired. Not so tired today as on other days, but still tired. Somehow, the ever-present not-quite-enough-sleep state of newish parents is harder to cope with when you're sitting on your butt all day in an office, than when you're entertaining and caring for a baby all day. Something about these people wanting me to use my brain or something, and you know, think! analyze! respond! It's definitely different brain parts required for this lawyering deal than it is for playing peek-a-boo and making the baby giggle while folding laundry.
The Olive totally suckered me. She started sleeping for longish stretches of 4 or 5 hours at a month old, and stretched them out to 7, 8, 9 hour stretches, waking up once to nurse, falling right back asleep, easily soothed if there were a disturbance or a cry in the night. We were content parenting geniuses. At six months, she started rolling over in her sleep, and waking herself up several times a night because my god, halp! stranded on my belly! mayday! mayday! We taught her to go back to sleep on her stomach, and thought all would be well. But no. Since then, there have only been a few nights where she only wakes up once. I dream of those nights, when I sleep long enough to dream. Sometimes she's hungry, she really is, going through a growth spurt, slurping down milk in desperate, deep gulps. She's been teething. She started crawling, and would get up on her knees in the crib and rock, or even crawl around in her crib. Then she'd sit up in her sleep. All of these things while not quite awake, but she couldn't get herself back to sleep. She does sometimes. Sometimes she wants company, perhaps because she's missed us during the day. We aren't in the "cry-it-out" camp. It turns out that we are crunchy, baby-wearing, co-sleeping (sometimes), attachment sorts of parents who don't let our baby cry because we believe she cries for a reason. She was never a fussy baby. She always cries for a reason, and we view it as our job to figure out what it is. Unfortunately, that is often at two or three or four in the morning, the prime small hours of sleeping.
It's not that bad. I know of friends' babies who wake up much more. I also know of ones that sleep through the night. I don't talk to those friends about baby sleep, because I rather hate them, in their well-rested smugness. Oh, we just lay her down to sleep. Whatever. My baby is just more sensitive and perceptive and feels more deeply than your boring old baby who just sleeps for eleven straight hours. How dull. I figure we are about average, in terms of baby sleep.
And we are averagely unslept. Which leads to some madness. In an effort to make our lives easier this week, I did some crazy grocery overshopping on Sunday, and made two (2) lasagnas and coq au vin, and mashed potatoes and turnips and baked acorn squash. Plus there was leftover Chinese and a rotiesserie chicken. And some chicken breasts that really should be marinated and grilled so we can throw them on salads! Because I am insane, and because I wanted to not have to worry about lunch or dinner all week, and be able to spend an extra hour or two each day completely focused on the Olive, on basking in her presence, chasing her around as she chases the poor dog around while he tries to nap.
I think I overdid it, but we haven't been at a loss for what to eat for two days. We should be fine for the rest of the week. And we can probably invite the whole block over for dinner too, since I forgot about the farm share (we pick it up on Mondays), and our refrigerator is now packed to the gills with Ziploc bags of beans and greens and peppers, waiting for gumbo aux herbes this weekend. Really packed. If you move the wrong Ziploc, there will be a kale explosion and someone will lose an eye. But I was remarkably un-stressed when I got home yesterday, because I knew I could just warm something up in a couple of minutes. Which made me happier to hold and play with the Olive, because she really wants to be held when I get home, and I am delighted to indulge her, trying to snuggle her enough to make up for the day.
And all was feeling balanced and delightful for a short while. Until the husband told me that he'd been reminded that day by our dental hygienist that our anniversary is coming up (Oct. 1!) and what were we planning to do? Ummm.....
It's not like we forgot that our anniversary was coming up in eight days. Except that we totally did, and had to be reminded by the woman who cleans our teeth and deciphers our open-mouthed blabbing twice a year.
Last year - a pregnancy ago, a birth ago, a baby ago, an eternity ago - I stuffed my fat pregnant feet into some heels, put on large jewelry to distract from my whale-belly, and we went to a lovely restaurant where I stared longingly at the bar, and almost injured myself trying to shovel a last spoonful of cheesecake into my nonexistent stomach.
This year? We're going to get takeout! And open a bottle of fancy wine! Because not having to cook is total luxury, and at least I can drink now! And enjoy watching our baby girl try to pick up blueberries and broccoli and chicken and stuff it in her mouth, watching her grow and change before our very eyes, and trying in our sleepless haze to remember every second, because it all changes again tomorrow.
