I didn’t do so well last night.
Sage was screaming before she was fed. Sage was screaming while she was fed. Sage was screaming after she was fed.
I tried burping her (lap position, over-the-arm position, on-the-shoulder position, a few improvised positions that may have defied physics). I tried rocking her. I tried swaddling her (with a blanket and with a garment specifically designed for that). I tried talking to her. I tried singing to her. I tried her bouncy seat. I tried tummy time. I tried the pacifier. I tried distracting her. I tried differing the warmth of her clothing. I tried ignoring her for several minutes.
She eventually settled down, but ONLY IF she was in my arms. Which, you know — awwwwww, cute and all, but not exactly conducive to getting myself to bed. So when I’d set her down to run the dogs out for one last time, or to lie down myself, I generally had two or three minutes maximum before she was back at Full Red Alert.
And of course, after two hours of this, when Ann got up and came in, it seemed like all she had to do was look at her and Sage was ready to go to sleep. I was so hyper-tired that I was at my wit’s end. I was teary-eyed and practically dizzy.
I felt like a failure, even though intellectually I knew it wasn’t true. Every daddy goes through something like this.
We’re minutes away from her feeding again. My goal is a simple one: do something better than last night.
We’ll get there.
And, Sage: this won’t be the last time you drive me nuts. I’m sure I’ll return the favor someday. And I know that neither of us will mean to cause the other any agony.
Except I am totally going to wake you up in the middle of the night some time for no particular reason when you’re a teenager. You’ve been given fair warning.