We just returned from a very successful trip to Shreveport, LA for Sophie's Baptism. She travelled well, she adapted to new surroundings like a seasoned globe-trekker, she worked the post-Baptism brunch like the party hostess that I believe she was born to be. We were so proud!
Truth be told, I haven't written much lately because life has been good. No crazy shenanigans. Pretty even-keeled stuff, which is great for day-to-day living but not so interesting to write about. However, all that was about to change.
We drove home the 3 hours from Shreveport to Dallas gloating about how well our little angel behaved on the trip, how pretty she looked on her big day and how good she was being in the car. We got home, still wrapped in our stupid reverie, went about our day, got our gal down for bed and .... all hell breaks loose. There is a saying, "don't count your eggs before they're hatched." Well, I get those old sayings now.
My husband and I drift off to sleep with visions of happy travels dancing in our heads when the 2am screaming wake up call comes a knockin'. Yes, our good sleeper was awake, sitting up in her crib and screaming bloody murder. Two trips in to rock her, multiple lullabies (some I must admit had some curse words inserted in them as the hours wore on) the smallest dose of baby Tylenol and a diaper change later (2 hours had passed) I'm now storming around the house. My husband, who had been in bed until now, wisely jumped out of bed like a scalded cat (without lecturing by me!) and hurried in to help. Last attempt was a bottle. Maybe I should have come to the bottle conclusion sooner, but she hasn't needed a middle of the night snack in awhile so that obvious solution did not come to my sleep deprived mind until much later.
Husband administers the bottle because I'm about to willingly run into traffic at this point, and gets her to bed....finally....at 4:15am! And then she's up again at 6! Yea parenthood!
Well, 3 days later, filled with fussy baby, interrupted sleep and zombie-parents, I give my gal a serious mom-daughter pep talk stating that this grumpy phase is now over and we are kicking it to the curb. I'm not going to lie, I did resort to singing Twisted Sister's "We're Not Gonna Take It" in order to emphasize my point. I may have taken liberty with some of the lyrics as well, so I am infinitely sorry to Dee Snider and all 80's metal heads. However, Twisted Sister's genius lyrics (plus some of my own) seemed to have worked. A couple of hours post pep talk/sing along I took my gal to run some errands. She falls asleep in the car for like, 30 min., wakes up, smiles, laughs and is a delight again. The clouds have parted and the angels are singing.
Now can someone please explain the last 72 hours to me?!! Yes, yes, yes I've read all about teething (which we are in the thick of), I've read about growth spurts, but maybe,...just maybe, she decided to be an a-hole for a few days? I mean we all have our "off days". However, I have to hand it to her yet again, it's a rare (wait, I mean NEVER) occurrence that I get to go on a multi-day "bitch fest"with the response to my actions being even more love and affection, being fed foods that I am known to love, and getting gently rocked to sleep for every bedtime and nap. I'm telling you, this girl is good. Its good to be a baby.
Moral of this story: My husband and I have survived another strange "spell" of babyhood. Our happy gal is back and the demon has again left to go party with another baby.
Sorry "other baby!"
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