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Archives from 2002-2006

I actually didn’t even consider the fact that it might be Extremely Controversial to disclose that I resorted to drugging my infant (albeit with half a nippleful of a children’s antihistamine instead of, say, a well-aimed dart containing a large dose of Phenobarbital, which I for one am just glad I did not have on hand at 4 AM because it would have been TEMPTING, VERY TEMPTING) until a few of you left comments that told me I was brave for admitting it, which . . . gosh, no, you are sweet, and are you doing something different with your ass because it looks fantastic, but it totally didn’t occur to me that maybe it wasn’t a good idea to talk about slipping unneeded medication into a howling baby in order to get some sleep.

Uh, it does seem kind of obvious in retrospect.

Anyway, thanks for not poking me with a CPS-stick, even if you were privately horrified at my Torrid Confessional. I hesitate to even mention a follow-up, because every time I write down what Dylan is doing sleepwise he seems to merrily switch things up because god knows we wouldn’t want a little consistency around here, ha ha ha AIIEE, but after an initial mighty protest of bedtime last night he slept just fine.

Yeahhh. I don’t know.

In other news I am waiting for an appliance repairperson to show up today because our dishwasher seems to be clogged, a situation for which I have been squarely blamed. I’ll take the hit on this one, I do occasionally put things in there without rinsing every speck of food from their surfaces, but I would also like to point out that a SUREFIRE way to avoid such reprehensible behavior on my part would be for the other adult member of the household — whose dishwasher-loading skills are apparently faultless in every way — to pitch in, let’s say 50% of the time. Why, that’s HALF as many chances for me to clog anything! Everyone wins!

I’d also like to mention that only I seem capable of understanding that cramming the washing machine to the brim before turning it on and walking away 1) does not constitute the full chore of “doing laundry”, and 2) means that everything just turns around in the dryer in a giant ball and comes out in a wrinkled clump; that while the dishwasher has been out of commission the task of hand-washing dishes fell entirely on my shoulders; and that JB views the notion of actually touching the vacuum handle exactly the same as holding a woman’s purse, which is to say he fears the briefest of contact will shrink his testicles. In comparison, a few stray mushrooms left in the dishwasher? SAINTLY HOUSEHOLD BEHAVIOR.

I like to think that having gone through this whole parenting-a-baby-business twice now, I’m a little more savvy to what’s going on an infant’s ever-growing, but ultimately still Chiclet-sized brain. I know that babies love measuring cups and remote controls. I know that sometimes babies grind their teeth and that’s totally normal, even if it makes you want to toss them in the recycling bin. I know that no matter how gross a substance is, chances are it’ll come clean in the washing machine. And I know that when a baby goes through a stage of shaking their head back and forth, sometimes it’s just because they’re basically pint-sized stoners and they just like to trip out on what that does to their vision; a person need not necessarily work themselves into a full panic by researching stimming symptoms.

I also know the difference between a hungry cry, and woeful cry, and an angry cry. But I don’t for the life of me have any idea what to do when a baby refuses to sleep and issues forth a nonstop auditory assault for something like six solid hours in the middle of the night.

I comforted him, I fed him, I picked him up and rocked him, I brought him out to watch Fringe (oh stop, we covered his eyes during the scary parts). He would yawn and rub his eyes and look for all the world like he was purely exhausted and we’d put him back to bed and he’d scream. Angrily. He wasn’t in pain, he wasn’t feverish, he didn’t seem sick . . . he was just pissed off.

He’d fall into a light doze in the rocking chair but I can’t sleep in a goddamned rocking chair, not only is it uncomfortable but I’m pretty sure a 20-lb baby would drop from my arms like a stone the instant I nodded off. He didn’t like our bed. He didn’t want his crib, or his bouncy seat. It went on for HOURS. Way past the point where I thought a baby would simply pass out from the sheer exhaustion of being such an asshole for so long.

I don’t mean to bring up a sore subject but round about 3 AM I was feeling very nose-punchy about people who say they Never Ever Let Their Children Cry. Really? WELL THEN YOU HAVE NOT MET THIS BABY. Because there was no stopping the discontent, except for the rocking chair thing, and maybe some saintly motherfuckers would have stayed in that chair until the break of dawn but I’m sorry but I am NOT A ROBOT.

Finally, and I am not proud of this, I drugged him. It was 4 AM and I was cross-eyed with flayed nerves and tiredness and I didn’t even measure the Benadryl, I just glugged a little of what I hoped was a non-lethal amount into the nipple of his bottle and gave it to him. (I am also not proud of the fact that when I told JB my plans, and he said “Children’s Benadryl, right?” in a worried tone, I snapped, “NO I AM GOING TO CRUSH UP SOME ADULT DOSES AND ADMINISTER THEM RECTALLY.”)

After that, glorious silence. This morning, a totally non-pissed-off, dopey-grinning baby. WTF.

Was there anything I could have done to make the evening less of a horrorshow? What the hell am I going to do tonight if the same thing happens again? Am I ever going to feel like I really know what I’m doing, or is winging it just the name of the freaking game? I HAVE NO IDEA.

PS: Here are some amusing “school” pictures of Dylan, taken at daycare. I always find these funny, because they never fail to make a normally-cute kid look like . . . well, kind of a goober.

Note that Riley flat-out refused to participate, possibly remembering this horrific incident from a year ago.

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