My Son Is Trying To Kill Me (Or It’s a Good Thing Babies Are Cute)

Note:  This is a post from a previous blog originally posted on April 28, 2010.

 Today I am too tired to be clever.

My little smile monster woke me up at 3:12 am and I never went back to sleep. In the light of day, I realize the poor little guy is teething and all he wanted was his mom to comfort him. I get that, I really do. Often after a hard day, I wish my mom could come over and make me a chicken pot pie and comfort me. It’s a mom thing. But it’s hard to remember at 4:32 in the morning when not only will my son NOT go back to sleep alone in his crib, but he also won’t stay asleep if I lie down with him, which means he insists that I stay sitting upright. For hours. At that point, I really wonder if my son is trying to kill me. I often thought that in the first few weeks (ok months) of new motherhood. Sure he LOOKS sweet, but beneath that toothless gummy grin lies the masochistic brilliance of a totalitarian dictator.

I just forgot not only what I was going to write next, but my mind wandered into total blankness. I wasn’t thinking about anything else, it just went blank. And stayed there. It was comforting. See, his first plan of attack is already working. Wear her out, torture her with sleep deprivation to a state where she can’t fight back, in fact, doesn’t WANT to fight back, but is happy being mindless. Maybe O has read 1984 or A Wrinkle In Time while I am at work. Stewie on Family Guy is still just as funny to me, but now he makes me strangely nervous.

Oh yeah, I was going to tell you what a terrible mom I am. So there I am, sitting and rocking and singing the same stupid songs over and over that usually work (see Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, You Are My Sunshine, My Country Tis of Thee and This Land Is Your Land, sprinkled with On The Road Again and Crazy Eddie’s Last Hurrah when desperate). In between the singing and the rocking, there are multiple attempts to put him back in his crib (i.e., me standing up and holding my breath to see if his breathing pattern changes, checking for correct limpness, doing two more minutes of the shush and sway dance, just in case (yes,I count to 60 twice), then carefully laying him down so as to have negligent disruption of his position, and hold my breath as I tip-toe backwards and say the Lord’s Prayer). The end result is always the same- he pops up onto his knees like he is in an Usher video and lets out a hideous shriek that could signify torture or simple displeasure. When I pick him up for the who-knows-how-many-times, I have a talk with him. It went something like this:

Baby screaming. This scream is used for when he falls on his head OR when you dare to put him in his crib alone for a minute so you can go to the bathroom.
I pick him up. Screaming instantly stops. O squirms happily and makes cute mewing sounds.

First Time:
Me: Ok, baby, I know you don’t feel well, let’s rock a little bit longer. Sweet sweet thing. Mom misses you when I’m at work.

Second Time:
Me: Now, listen, Mommy NEEDS her sleep. This is ridiculous. Your crib is so comfy, remember, and you sleep there every night. Shhhh, sweetie, let’s go to sleep now.

Fifth Time:
Me: Baby Dictator’s Name, seriously dude, I CANNOT rock you for hours on end. Come on and go to sleep. Go to sleep. Stop smiling at me and GO TO SLEEP. No I am NOT playing.

Seventh time:
Me: This is fucking insane. Mom has to go to WORK in a few hours, I canNOT handle this, and WHERE is your father? Work trip my ass, he’s sleeping soundly somewhere. We should call and wake him up. You know this is why moms shake their kids, right? Are you just testing me?

Yes I really did say those terrible, awful things. In a sing-song whisper of course, because I didn’t want to upset him or wake him up more.

He tossed and turned and whimpered and cried and laughed in his sleep all night long (the laughing part is what convinces me he is plotting against me) but the instant it was time to “wake-up” (which was 6:30 am, mind you, still dark out), he sat up quite determinedly, popped open his eyes, grinned at me, placed his little hands on my cheeks and said “Bah!”. And my heart melted. In the saneness that is morning, (which means after I’ve had my large cup of coffee) of course I know he was just not feeling well. Who wouldn’t rather sleep all snuggled up against something warm and safe and unconditional? Poor thing has me for a mom. While he thinks he’s all safe, I’m up there whisper-yelling obscentities at my poor sweet innocent baby.

I also sing “Rude Boy” by Rihanna to him. So inappropriate, but he laughs when I sing the “Giddy-up, giddy-up, giddy-up boy” part. And I will do anything to make my little precious laugh.

So totally off topic. I intended to post about my master cosmic “To Do” list that hopefully will be the driving force behind my attempt to change my life in mid-stride. But as I say often in momma land, tomorrow is another day. Unless it’s a night where your baby doesn’t let you sleep, in which case tomorrow is still today.

Please note: I did not and would not shake my child. Please don’t call protective services on me. It’s called sarcasm, I am teaching it to him early. Also, “bah” means good morning, oh look a cat/dog/squirrel, woo hoo a star puff/Blackberry device/ball of fuzz I can shove in my mouth, or pretty much anything exciting to an 8 month old. Bah is the highest form of praise from O.

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