The good news: Apparently we have (yet another) baby who likes to sleep 21 hours a day. Note to pregnant Moms everywhere – when people tell you to lay off the sauce because you’re “pregnant”, nod and ignore them. Yes, Ellie may get a little cross-eyed from time to time, and Lila likes to drink toilet water, but I believe my weekly wine allowance had a direct effect on bearing three good sleepers. And that’s a sacrifice that I’m willing to make.
The bad news: Said baby prefers her waking hours to be between 2-5am. And if I learned anything in college, it’s that nothing good happens between 2-5am. I’ve had four people tell me that sleep deprivation is one of the most cruel types of torture that can be used on prisoners of war. These words of encouragement ring in my ears as I sit in bed at 3am with the thousand yard stare while Hadley looks at me with eyes that say, “Thanks for the boob – now where’s the after party?”
It’s really hard not to get angry and frustrated, especially with these raging hormones and hours of uninterrupted sleep that I can count on one hand. But I just try to think of all the cute things about her, like her little toes, or the beautiful auburn highlights in her hair when the sunlight catches it just right.
And by sunlight I mean warm glow of the television set while we watch Threes Company at 2:30am.
What, you think I can actually leave the house with three kids?
The most excitement I’ve had since coming home from the hospital was that I got my first Brazilian on Friday night. It was actually the result of standing up and adjusting the colossal post c-section maxi pad wedgie I got from sitting on the couch addressing Christmas cards for three hours straight, but so exhilirating… in a bad way.
I was all, “Yowsa! Happy birthday, MISTER PRESIDENT!”
Nick came running in all, “Are you okay? What happened?”
And I was all, “Well, you’ll find out in about 4-6 weeks… IF you play your cards right.”
And I just have to say, as much flack as I give him on this blog, I need to give props where props are due. The man is a machine – taking care of the kids so I can take a nap, cleaning, cooking, letting me sleep in every morning until our “helper of the day” gets here even though it means a busier day at work for him. He even bought me a very nice “thanks for having a baby” gift.
So hopefully this one paragraph makes up for the countless posts where I call out everything he’s ever done that sucks.
Now if you’ll excuse me I hear slurping coming from the bathroom and I haven’t seen Lila in 20 minutes.