I was going to type out the ‘real’ word but I just couldn’t make myself do it. I’m nothing if not a lady. Stop laughing or I’ll throat punch you. Ahem.
I’ve written this post many times over the last twelve hours. Let’s see what makes the cut, shall we?
Yesterday Andrew had his four month checkup. He did very well, weighing in at 16.6 lbs and 25 and 7/8 inches. I wouldn’t add that 7/8, but it changes him from the 50th to 75th percentile, and without that he seems quite spherical.
Then came the shots. While we waited for Nurse Hatchet to get them ready, I put Andrew in the Moby. The nurses thought it was the coolest thing ever. Here’s a picture (I can’t believe I’m about to post my flabby arms on the internets for all to see, but in the name of full disclosure, or something, here it is):
Does making the picture smaller make my arms smaller? I thought so.
Moving on. I should mention that I had been bragging throughout the appointment about how good he did with his two month shots. KISS OF DEATH NUMBER ONE.
He got the shots, screamed like a lunatic, then calmed when I stuck him on the magic boob. After a sufficient snack we went home. All signs pointed to this being just like his two months shots. He did great after those, did I mention that?
Then nighttime rolled around and my life started to SUCK for the following reasons:
1. Andrew could not get comfortable or happy. He had gas (which he never has at night) which wasn’t making him fussy but did keep him from settling down.
2. He was congested, which kept him from eating well, which kept him from settling down.
3. He had been stabbed, which kept him from forgiving me and UNDERSTANDING THAT I DID IT SO YOU WOULDN”T END UP IN AN IRON LUNG.
4. He was fussy. And teething. And not taking it as well as I bragged about earlier. KISS OF DEATH NUMERO DOS.
I should mention that he did go to sleep from eight until eleven, which was the only uninterrupted sleep I got. Around eleven I woke up feeling pretty rested and thinking about getting up for a bit to watch TV. Andrew read my mind and decided he’d like to second that notion by screaming his fool head off.
So we got up (Mr. Aggie tried not to look too annoyed by the disturbance and I tried not to kick him in the babymaker. [Do guys have those? I mean, part of the baby is made there.]) Andrew and I went out into the living room. I plopped him in the swing and picked up the laptop, and the hysterics began again.
Two hours and 1,000 renditions of the chorus of “American Pie” by Don McLean later we went back to bed.
For the next hour or so, when Andrew would alllllllmost doze off, when his breathing would start to deepen and regulate and the tension in my muscles would ease by a few millimeters, then and only then would Mr. Aggie flop over in bed like an unfortunate trout and RUIN EVERYTHING. Meanwhile I was teetering on the edge of sanity (insanity?) the bed, maintaining a precarious position out of sheer force of will that caused entire large muscle groups to seize in protest.
Once during this interval I suggested sweetly that Mr. Aggie retire to the guest room. If someone offered me that option I would have been out of there in no time flat. He just grunted and rolled over.
An hour later I reiterated my offer, in slightly stronger terms. Actually, I jabbed him in the back and hissed “GET OUT.NOW.”
He left without even a backwards glace. Thank goodness no one does midnight divorces, or I would have ordered one.
Eventually, in spite of the factors listed above, Andrew dozed off. This did not keep him from SCREAMING in his sleep at ten minute intervals. A more Gitmo-worthy alarm clock I cannot imagine.
Mr. Aggie did help this morning with getting Andrew ready, and I made sure to thank him (even though no one thanks me for doing it everydamnday by mydamnself not that I’m bitter). He made sure not to complain about how little sleep he got, even though he looked like death.
Andrew was still extremely fussy this morning, and he screamed and cried the whole time Mr. Aggie held him while I got myself and our stuff ready. He would only stop screaming when I held him which, while mildly gratifying, was not conducive to getting dressed.
As I loaded him in the car, Mr. Aggie said, “I hope your day gets better.” And I responded optimistically, “It has to!” KISS OF DEATH NUMBER THREE.
Finally we were in the car and on the road. Andrew passed out almost immediately, but woke several times to scream just so I knew he still doesn’t forgive me. We were almost to the babysitter’s when…
The railroad crossing bars whateverthehelltheyare were down. And stayed down. For fifteen minutes. Without a gd train in sight. As my baby screamed. And screamed. And screamed. And I cried. And cursed. And cried. And cursed.
I’m honestly considering emailing TRE to tell them how they FUBAR’ed my day, even more than the FUBAR it already was.
Oh, and leaving your screaming baby at daycare? Not as much of a relief as you’d expect. Pretty much just makes you feel like shit.
On a positive note (even though last time I tried that the universe mocked me openly and with gusto) my kids are remarkably well behaved today. Their self-preservation instincts seem to have kicked in just in time, because I am thisclose to losing.my.shit.