Friday, March 30, 2012

Puff and Pterodactyls Really Have Nothing to Do With It

It's 11:22 p.m. T is finally asleep. If you were sitting here in my dark little living room with me, you would never have guessed what just went down in this house.

You would also most likely be a creepy weirdo.

I attempted the cry method (pretty sure that's not the scientific name) of putting T to bed tonight. The whole process started out great. I didn't even think I would NEED to use it at first. I gave the baby a bottle, he fell asleep and I put him in his crib. Voila.

I should have know it wouldn't, couldn't be that easy.

T has been sleeping fitfully since he was born for the past few nights. I'm almost certain it's because he's teething. Not like normal baby teething, either. More like, "Hey, I think I should get ALL MY TOP TEETH AT ONCE" teething.

This is also known as the seventh circle of hell.

It probably wasn't the greatest idea to try out a new method on an already cranky child who's been rocked to sleep every night of his 11 month existence. Yeah, rookie mistake. Or whatever comes in below rookie status. Dummy? Dolt? Blockhead? Pick one.

About five minutes after I lay him down, he starts to fuss. So I go in and pick him up and sit down in the rocking chair like I usually do. He is not cool with this plan. He starts tossing Mickey onto the floor (that's his "lovey"), slaps me in the face several time, pulls my hair, fling his arms around, fusses, does the "I'm not a baby, I'm a 2x4" thing, kicks his feet, rubs his eyes and generally carries on.

I'm finally like, "That's it, I'm laying down the law" ... and the baby.

Bad puns are a specialty of mine.

I set a timer for two minutes.

After some mild to moderate crying, I go in and calm T down by rubbing his back whilst draping my tired old self like a used dishcloth over the edge of the crib.

He settles down after five or so minutes and goes back to sleep. I leave. And the screaming begins again. This time it's amped up a little. I set another timer and go scrub my sink with baking soda.

I'm a stress cleaner. I'm also a stress eater. That could very well have been the reason those pretzels tasted like bleach.

Anyway, I finish that and go back in to "comfort" my now hyperventilating child.

He's snot having it.

Yay. Two whole puns. There is still hope for my sad, sorry sense of humor.

The hubby comes in. "What are you doing?"

"I'm, uh, I'm trying the cry method. We let him cry so he learns to go to sleep by himself."

"So he screams his head off and then magically falls asleep?"

"Um, yes."

He looks at me like I've spent a little too much time with Puff the Magic Dragon.

Sheltered? Me? Nawwww.

Confession Time: I did not know that song was about marijuana until I was 18.

Confession Time Part 2: I thought you smoked marijuana by making a nice little fire-like pile of it on a flat surface, lighting it with a match, and letting the smoke waft around you.

Confession Time Part 3: I've never actually seen marijuana. If somebody substituted it for one of my dried herbs, I'd never know. Except there's a very good possibility I'm allergic. So I might die. Other than that, I'd never know.

Anyway, the hubby does the comforting this time. Once T's asleep, we lay him back down.

Anyone wanna guess what happens?

His little eyes pop open and he stands up and says in a British accent, "You blokes officially suck as parents".

Oh wait, that's a TV show.

His little eyes pop open and he starts screaming.

There we go.

We let him scream. For five whole minutes. Then my husband is like, "This is not good. He's HYPERVENTILATING." And I'm like, "Fine. You deal with it." So he does. T falls asleep again.

We try to lay him down. And the cycle continues (if you weren't paying attention, that would be: he wakes up, he screams, we wait a few minutes, I vigorously scrub something, we attempt comfort, he achieves dream state, we lay him down, repeat.)

Every time this happens the screams get louder and longer and more horrible than I ever could have imagined.

Which leads me to briefly ponder the link between babies and pterodactyls. Perhaps the stork isn't really a stork at all, but a gigantic prehistoric creature who teaches babies to make horrific sounds that can turn their parents into mushy-brained morons ...

Behold, the face of evil.
... yup, that's definitely it.

Finally, Chance lays down with him on our bed.

T keeps wailing. I come in.

"THAT WAS A TERRIBLE IDEA," he yell-whispers.

"WELL, HE HAS TO LEARN SOMETIME," I yell-whisper back.

"HE WOULD HAVE BEEN ASLEEP TWO HOURS AGO IF YOU HADN'T DONE THAT STUPID THING."

"IT'S NOT A STUPID THING. IT'S A PSYCHOLOGICAL THEORY."

"IT'S RETARDED. EVERY TIME I TRY TO LEAVE, HE SCREAMS. HE'S TERRIFIED OF BEING ALONE NOW AND IT'S YOUR FAULT."

Consequently, my husband also has a terrible fear of being alone. He can also sound (and routinely acts) exactly like Grover, which makes the video on the right even more apropros.

But back to the whisper fight:

"NO, HE'S NOT. HE JUST DOESN'T WANT TO GO TO SLEEP."

"WHATEVER."

"WHATEVER."

Have you ever had an entire conversation in yell-whispers? It does some weird things to your vocal chords. So I go get a drink of water. Fold the laundry. Read some blog posts. Steam a bit.

And come back an hour later to find my husband and baby curled up on the bed (my side of the bed) snoring away.

I guess Daddy's going to be in charge of bed time from now on. Otherwise, mommy could do irreversible damage to the poor child's psyche.

It's all the pterodactyl's fault.

I told you they were evil.
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