Sweet dreams

So I’m writing this as much as for posterity as I am to entertain my legions and legions of fans.

Or, as they are also known, my mom.

Anyway, tonight as I was putting Simon down, I was thinking how funny our bedtime routine has become. We have this weird, albeit long as crap, choreography going every night, and it is just too damn cute. I want to write it down so I’ll remember it one day, like when he’s too big to cuddle or being really bad and I want to sell him on the black market.

So, we start pretty early, about 6 or 6:30. He’s had his bath, then I inhale dinner while holding him while wrestling my plate out of his grubby little paws. Seriously, this kid has a GRIP on him. Babies are freakishly strong, actually. If you haven’t had one, you probably think they are just weak little blobs of slobber and angel tears. They aren’t. They are little mega beasts that can rip out your eyebrows on a whim. Seriously.

Ok, so I’m now stuffed with whatever I made for dinner that I basically shoved down my throat without chewing, and we head into bed before he loses it. I lay him down to put him in his little sleep sack, and he starts fussing and crying like he’s being beat. I ignore this. Finally I stop the torture and we settle in to nurse. Within minutes, his little eyes are closed and he’s in this dream state of eating and sleeping. So peaceful and so sweet.

It’s a lie.

He does this for 30 or so minutes. He is actively drinking and won’t let me stop him if I think he’s done. No, he’s calling the shots. So I enjoy this time and relax, read my Nook, play Words with Friends, etc. Once he’s finally done, one of two things happen: I lay him in his crib and he stays asleep, or I lay him in his crib and he wakes up. Either way, I head out the door as part of the charade that he’s letting me off the hook that easy.

If he stays asleep, I know better than to do anything involved or away from home, because he’s not staying asleep. At least he hasn’t yet. Within 45 minutes, he’s up and wailing. Now, don’t get me wrong, I have no problem letting him cry. But I’ve been trained learned that if he’s not DONE, he will cry for 45 minutes or more until he gets his way or passes out. However, if I go back in and give him what he wants, he is asleep sooner and we are both happier. So he wins this battle.

If he wakes up immediately, the same thing happens as above, but faster.

OK, so whether it’s been 10 minutes or 45, he’s up and I head back in. I pick him up and head back to bed with him (we nurse on the bed in his room). But now, he’s a totally different baby than he was an hour before. He is WILD. He’s had his little power nap or relaxation time, and now he’s ready to go!

I’m not.

But here’s where he really gets me. This is the No. 1 time of the day that I am the center of his world. The rest of the day, his focus is on 1. Declan 2. The cat 3. This funny stuffed doll my mom got him 4. Anything colorful and 5. Me. So we snuggle. And by snuggle, I mean he beats the shit out of me.

It rocks.

Seriously, now this kid lights up like the Fourth of July and Christmas tree combined. He is all smiles, and when I hold him on my lap, he jumps and claps and goes crazy. Then the make out session starts. I DON’T MEAN A REAL ONE, FREAKS. But that’s what I call it whenever a cute boy comes at me with his mouth wide open, ok?

So yea, now I’m No. 1, biotches. He LOVES me now. He grabs my face and latches on to my cheeks or nose or eyes or mouth or chin and drools/bites/sucks all over me. Then he digs those razor-sharp little baby claws into my eyes or up my nose and pulls me to him for more. Sometime later, he aims for my hair, and when he does, OUCH. No wonder moms suffer postpartum hair loss. It’s not the hormones, it’s the little monsters they birthed. He grips my bangs (or what’s left of them) and YANKS so hard that if he wasn’t a cute little baby, I’d probably slap him.

But he is, so I don’t.

So this goes on for a while. Pulling and slapping and biting and scratching. I typically feel like Boof after her 7 minutes in heaven with Scott in “Teen Wolf.” Eventually, the beating slows down and Simon is ready to settle in. So I lay him down on me, ready for the next part of the routine, what I call the Stoner Phase.

Exhaustion is setting in, and my little fighter is getting sleepy. His eyes are glazed over, he has a goofy grin on his face, and he starts making this funny growling sound, kinda like singing but not in tune (like when I sing, which doesn’t stop me either). Then he raises one of his hands in the air, and starts waving his fingers around really slowly, kinda like Vanna White revealing a recently purchased vowel. He watches his fat little fingers like a hippy at a light show at Bonnaroo, and sings to his hand, or me or the little dragons he is hallucinating. Whatever. He gets in a couple more hair pulls and face bites before he finally rubs his eyes and I know the war is won, and I am the victor.

A few more minutes of nursing, or if he’s not hungry, of snuggling in the dark, and I can lay him down wide awake, and he kicks his little legs, snuggles with his puppy and that’s the end of it. 90 minutes have gone by from start to finish, and while I know it COULD go a lot faster if I didn’t go back in and get  my nightly beatdown, but where’s the fun in that?


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One response to “Sweet dreams

  1. Pingback: Documenting the abuse | Domestic Disturbia

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