Baby Harry is nine months old and, until recently, was doing a spot-on job of sleeping through the night. Then he got sick. Like "hey I could probably fry an egg on you if I wanna!" sick.
It was the worst two weeks of my life.
So, obviously, I met his every whim and need on command. If he was hungry even after eating his large lunch, I fed him. If he didn't want to sleep until midnight and could only find comfort by lying on his back, arched over my shoulder like a mink stole, I accomodated. If he felt like climbing my shirt front, ripping off whatever breast-like mass that happened to be in his way, and leaving a goo of baby nose slime in his wake - he did it.
And I showered more.
When he let me.
So now that he's pink and perky and back to a less fiery temperature - I seem to have nurtured the sickness - and the brattiness- out of him.
He sobs if I remove a found toy from his hands - no matter that his new "toy" is usually something that could choke/scar/maim him. He now imitates a banshee on crack if I so much as venture more than 12" from his person - making "quiet time" for momma a near impossibility. And, finally, he refuses to sleep alone.
His Pottery Barn crib with colorful sheets and bumpers?
A torture chamber.
The Twilght Turtle projecting the night sky upon the ceiling?
I am his Pardoner.
Only I can save him from his cruel cold prison. And so he howls, he shrieks, he yells, he shakes, he grunts, he coughs, he sputters and he pleads: "MOMMOMMAMMMOMMAAAMOMMAMMMOOOMMMA!"
And what do I do?
I escape. I hide. I cry. I --- blog.