I’m not going to try and calculate the hours I spent at work this week. It was a lot, and let’s leave it at that. Every evening came with some obligation or gathering to attend, and each night I got about five hours of sleep. I can function on this much sleep for days, but eventually I’ll crash and burn. I attempted said crash after getting home from work yesterday, but I made the critical error of marrying a catholic from western Pennsylvania. He has about three million relatives who live within forty miles and visit often, with very little warning. When Tim jarred me awake I got up and wandered down stairs and showed off my baby while trying to avoid muttering the words "potato famine" under my breath. Tim’s Irish relatives never find that one amusing for some reason. I don’t find being woke up from a dead sleep amusing either, but that never seems to bother them. At least there was no singing this visit. Usually, the Irish end up singing on my porch.
Friday morning I left my house at six AM, and got home after eleven PM. After a day like that, I miss Josie so much that I turn up the baby monitor as loud as it will go and lay in bed with it, listening to the "hYmmmmmm" noise she makes in her sleep. Her sleeping noises could make the grumpiest heart melt.
In spite of the demands of this week though, I am feeling better. I hesitate to say it, but I suddenly feel like myself again. In retrospect I think Josie’s self-weaning sent my hormones into a tailspin and I hit a pretty dark spot for a bit there.
Josie is feeling better too. She is back to her goofball self thanks to some time, Motrin, pear juice and biter biscuits. Her two days of agony gave us both a whole new perspective on parenthood. I can’t imagine the emotional toll of a child who is fussy for weeks or months, when we could barely handle forty-eight hours. Parents of babies with colic should get some sort of medal.
