It's 11:48pm and I'm questioning my patience as a mother and a wife. Apparently 6 weeks is supposed to be the most fussy time for a new baby. Most fussy in my world equates to constant feeding during which my nipples are whipped around like a dog with a rubber toy. Seriously child, I am not a piece a beef jerky to knaw on. Most fussy also equates to constant crying unless being rocked in a side-to-side motion, no make that back and forth, no side-to-side, no wait maybe just low back pats, or no now a small vibration movement while holding her soother in with my thumbs as my hands are wrapped around her hands to prevent accidental (on purpose) removal of the soother.
Whew. I'm tired.
But she's not, and Dad is downstairs working on a long-awaited renovation project which I encouraged (read: demanded) he get back to work on. So it's just me here, singing Lauren Hill off-key and making up words where I have forgotten them, changing her diaper only to find out that wasn't the real reason she was crying in the first place and now that $0.15 has not made it's full potential for that diaper.
Wait. Her eyelids appear to be growing heavy. Perhaps if I lay extra still next to her and don't... nevermind, the crying has begun again. The soother goes back in, sleep sheep set to another 30 minutes of ocean sounds, and I'm sure I will once again attempt to master checking my Facebook updates while breast feeding within the next 30 minutes give or take.
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