Rough Night, Rougher Morning (and Dad Rule #9)

Okay, last night was rough.

 

Babe-O has some molars coming in and they are obviously causing her much pain.  When I put her in her crib, she was out cold after swimming earlier in the day and I was sort of expecting an easy night.

 

Dad Rule #9: Don’t expect an easy night.  The universe resents that and will make you pay.

 

It was about one in the morning when she first woke up crying.  In late-night TV time, it was Craig Ferguson hour.

 

I went and got her and she pretty much immediately slumped over on my shoulder and went back to sleep.  I rocked her for a bit and put her back in the crib, where she immediately started crying.  We repeated this exercise a few times, until I finally gave up on that and went downstairs with her and started walking in circles to soothe her into a deeper sleep.  If I stopped walking, she’d cry.  If I sat down, she’d cry.  If my nose itched and I moved my hand from her back, she’d cry. 

 

I was really tired, so I was forcing myself to walk for another ten minutes once she fell asleep again.  Every time I walked through the kitchen on my little circular route, I’d glance at the clock on the microwave (1:35, 1:35, 1:35, 1:35, 1:35, 1:35, 1:35, 1:36, 1:36…).  I can’t even tell you how long it felt like it took.  Once I hit my completely arbitrary ten-minute mark, I went back upstairs and laid her down in her crib again.  Still sleeping.

 

I stepped away from the crib and the floor – just like it always does – creaked. 

 

Immediate, hysterical, gasping-for-breath crying.

 

Shit.  I scooped her up again and tried to rock her back to sleep.  More crying.  Screaming.  Getting worse.

 

Back downstairs.

 

Back to doing laps around the kitchen (1:50, 1:50, 1:50), which got her back to sleep.  Finally (2:01, 2:01, 2:02), she was sleeping soundly enough to take back upstairs.  I got her back in the crib and decided to hold still for a while so that she could settle in before I navigated the unavoidable floor creaks to get out of the room again (Indiana Jones fans: Jehovah starts with an “I”).  Because I was at my wit’s end, I forced myself to count down from 60 before moving a muscle (57…56…55) and the whole time I stood there, she didn’t make a peep (35…34…33), though let me add that I really had to pee at this point (10…987654321).

 

I crept out, watching every step as I went.  Made it to the door.  Made it into the hallway.  Closed the door.  And then slowly, turned the knob so that it wouldn’t click in the latch.  The sound of the doorknob turning did it.

 

Immediate, hysterical, gasping-for-breath crying.

 

I let her cry for just a minute while I got some Tylenol for her and opened it up, figuring that since she isn’t usually this difficult (at all), she must be in pain.  After scooping her up, I tried to give her the medicine, and she completely freaked, which was all the more disheartening since she loves the taste of the stuff and usually settles right down.  While she closed her mouth tight and shook her head and squirmed, I got frustrated to the point of snapping at her a little, telling her to knock it off and behave…something that Mom-O later told me she had overheard with surprise, as I’ve never really been so short with Babe-O before.

 

Eventually, the medicine went down, though not without getting the sticky liquid crap all over my hands. 

 

Back downstairs.  More laps. (2:45, 2:45, 2:45…)

 

By this point I was really, really mad at Babe-O.  Like I’ve never really been before.  Completely frustrated, completely spent.  Mentally fried, defenses down, and worrying about EVERYTHING.  Rational stress, irrational stress, just fretting until I felt like I was going to develop an ulcer overnight.

 

Then Babe-O arched her back suddenly and started fussing all over again.  But suddenly, I was calm.  Really calm.  And not mad at the baby.  For some reason, it hit me that she wasn’t being a little asshole or trying to give me a run for my money.  She was tired.  And not feeling well.  And in pain. 

 

She just wanted to be held and didn’t want to go to sleep on her own.

 

Suddenly, I felt better, and could have walked with her until the cows came home.

 

I took some more laps (no counting, no watching the clock), and eventually took her back upstairs, where she curled up in her crib and slept until morning.

 

And then it got really ugly

 

After my rough night up with Babe-O, I got up at five, planning to go to the gym.  I haven’t really worked out much since the baby was born.  And by “since the baby was born” I mean “since way before the baby was born.”  Yesterday we joined the YMCA, mostly for Amy and the little one, but I’m also pretty stoked about having a decent place to work out.  So anyway, today was going to be my get back in the swing of things workout. 

 

Five o’clock is pretty dark in these parts, but the super dark house got me to thinking that I probably don’t need to spend a ton of time at the gym on my first real workout in years.  I don’t need to be to work until 7:30, so I figured I’d have some coffee and check my e-mail before I got dressed and headed to the Y.  By this time it was about 5:30 and within about two seconds of logging into webmail, I realized that I had screwed something up the day prior and needed to get it straightened out post-haste.

 

In retrospect, my little snafu wasn’t a big deal, just putting a fire out like any other, but at the time it seemed like such a big stinking deal it was overwhelming.  I was so pissed at my mistake and so frustrated with myself that I could barely stand it.  And once I got everything straightened out (now about 6:30 a.m.) I was still FURIOUS.  Everything seemed overwhelming.  I was thinking that I could still squeeze in a quick workout, but suddenly felt completely overwhelmed by the logistics involved.  Driving there, getting dressed, working out, showering, packing my bag up, getting dressed – it all seemed like a huge ordeal.  I fretted about this until it was really too late to go to the gym and I just jumped into the shower at home.

 

Then it was time to get dressed.  It felt like it took forever.  I found myself resenting men’s fashion, violently hating stuff like shirt buttons and my belt.  I clearly remember HATING whoever it was that came up with the idea of belts and cursed pants designers for not making them fit better unaccessorized.  I remember being terribly angry at my feet for being wet from the shower and at my socks for not wanting to slide on over wet feet.  If my shoes had laces, I probably would have thrown them out the window and gone to work in my Uggs, I was that mad.

 

Then, believe it or not, I got in the car, started driving to work, and felt much better.  By the time the sun was up and I was at my desk, everything seemed just dandy.  I no longer resented mankind for not agreeing to all wear the same colored one-piece jump suits like you always see in the movies on people from the future.  Aside from having missed my workout, I felt fine.

 

Weird, huh?