There’s been a lot of talk here about what a great traveler my little squirt is. Indeed, she’s a doll face when she’s supposed to be awake, but she hasn’t accepted that 11:10 p.m. is not the time for refusing sleep and driving her mother batty. Just batty. I’m typing this through the wails. I can barely muster anything more than simple sentences. It’s been two hours. I’ve nursed, I’ve fed her pieces of pasta, I’ve walked, I’ve called in the powers of grandma, I’ve let her play, I’ve let her cry, I’ve turned down the television, I’ve been sympathetic, I’ve been forthright, I’ve nursed, I’ve called Aaron to vent, I’ve declared, “Well, she’s just going to have to cry, I’ve said to myself, “But she’s only a baby once.”
And then I got up and went in anyway and wiped her precious little snot and gave her a drink of water. Finally, I kept my hand on her back until she stilled and said, “Shhh, shhh, shhh” and watched the wails turn into blubbers and the blubbers turn into wimpers and the wimpers turn into sighs and the sighs turn into breaths.
It’s hard being responsible for someone else, and let me tell you, there are no complete thoughts to be had at midnight. I’m tired, but I love her. I don’t know. Maybe that’s as complete as it needs to be.
Playing in Grandma’s tupperware cabinet.
Trying out the flower-girl wagon. Next she’ll be all in white.