Last night, Sage went through one of her rebellious phases. She decided that sleep was a luxury and we needed an austerity program.
We managed to get her to bed about 12:20 am. At almost exactly 1:00 am, she began her practice for the band she will almost certainly go on to front, “Throatripper Screambellow.”
Feeding didn’t work. Pacifier didn’t work. Holding her didn’t work. Leaving her alone didn’t work. Swing didn’t work. Bouncy seat didn’t work. Tummy time on Benji the Aromatherapy Bearskin Rug didn’t work. Cradling her didn’t work. Talking to her didn’t work. Singing didn’t work.
I don’t mind being up with her… if she will only settle down when she’s in my arms, that’s fine. I’ll lose some sleep for the chance to hold my baby.
But when there is nothing that will stop her from screaming, for an hour and forty minutes? That’s unbelievably frustrating.
I don’t get mad at her. I get mad at me. Because I can’t figure out how to help her. And I could try to extrapolate some sort of parenting lesson from that, because I know there are about a million, but at that time of night I’m too darn tired. (And that’s actually why I’m mad at me — because I’m too tired to be rational.)
But I got her back to bed at 2:40. She got Ann up at 3:20 and kept her up until 4:45. She got us both up at 6:00.
It’s now 11:15 pm. If she hasn’t awakened by 11:30, I’m supposed to get her up to feed her. We’ll see when I actually get her to go back to sleep.
I just hope that if she stays awake, she stays calm. Being unable to calm a screaming baby for over an hour leads to weird, weird dreams when I finally get to sleep.