Last night was hell. It was supposed to be, though. Mondays and Wednesday nights are my Hell Nights, the nights when I am solely responsible for Rex until 7am the next morning when he is whisked on the arms of Mr. X to daycare.
But last night. Oh, my. It really was hell.
It didn’t seem like it was going to be that way. He had his nightcap bottle as usual at 7pm and was down by 7:30, all thanks to Mr. X (no need for daggers). I went to bed asking Mr. X to wake me if he heard the baby and I was still sleeping.
From prior experience, I knew he would wake up anywhere between 11pm (ugh) to 2:30am (not as ugh). First rousing last night? 11:05pm. I shuffled down the hall, freed him from his Woombie (one-handed, I might add), snuggled him in my arms in the rocker and commenced the feeding. Then, I started to hear noises. G panting and breathing heavily. Yapping dogs somewhere in the near vicinity with a knack for stopping long enough to let you think that they had given up only to start again. When I am sleep deprived and annoyed, little noises make me even more annoyed. Not a good way to start the night.
Then I realized there was something cold and wet on my shirt just in front on my sternum. Rex had managed to spit up on my shirt without me even knowing it and it was extremely uncomfortable. I didn’t have any change of clothes in his room, so I would have to be wet and clammy until I could get him back to sleep. 11:55pm, mission accomplished and I groped in the dark closet for a clean shirt, barefooted my way back to our bedroom and Mr. X snoring.
Next rousing: 2:30am. This is not boding well for a two-feeding night. He usually lasts longer than 2.5 hours on a bottle sleeping. More feeding, more dogs barking, more G panting and this time, he spits up on himself, not me and I change his outfit which while having a zipper is actually not easier to get on him. 3:15am, stumble back to room and send telepathic signals to Rex to sleep until at least 6:15.
Then, it’s 5:30. I know that because I looked at the clock when I heard, you guessed it, Rex. Again. W.T.F. The child hasn’t had a three-feeding night in at least six weeks. He drinks about 3.75 ounces, spits up on his second outfit requiring wrestling him into a third outfit (again with a zipper that is not helpful) and is out, gently snoring in my arms. Dogs are still barking, G this time is nowhere to be found, but the kitties are beginning to prowl around making walking hazardous lest I step on animals. I put him back in his crib for the third time and stumble back to our room.
It was that last feeding that was just draining. I hadn’t prepared myself for a three-feeding night. I had thought, my child is a champion night sleeper, no way he could regress so much so fast! And, I couldn’t try my hand at sleep training him (read going in, but not getting him up and trying to get him back to sleep) lest he wake up Mr. X. Most of all, I was annoyed at myself for thinking that we had finally gotten to that magical point where we had a handle on this baby thing. Who was I kidding? I’m just as bad at this baby thing as I was when we brought him home and I get to it all by myself all of next week since Mr. X is going out of town on business.
And, at that moment, all I wanted was my mommy. I wanted her to give me a big hug, tell me that it was all right, that Rex is fine, this stage is temporary and that we are doing a great job. Unfortunately, she’s about 5,000 miles away and will be until Halloween. I settled for a good cry in the shower instead.