Anya has decided that night time is for Wiggling (yes, with a capital "W"). Night time is also apparently for nursing. LOTS AND LOTS OF NURSING. I should be grateful that she isn’t taking this time to scream and fuss; she is pretty quiet about her milkie demands and wiggly self. But alas, I am not so grateful. I am too tired to be grateful. Just before sunrise I am whimpering and pleading with the child to just settle and sleep. But she is extraordinarily cruel and will not bend to my selfish requests. When I do manage to sleep it is only lightly, my arms reaching out blindly, holding her tiny hand or stroking her fuzzy head; trying desperately to soothe her restless self. Mark sleeps through this all because, well, he’s a man and men are oblivious. This morning I shoved Anya across the space between us and stammered, “you, you, you do. I can’t. Sleep, so tired. Please!” and he tucked her into his arms, wisely positioning his body between me and the little beastie.
Then I screwed it up. I was dreaming that I could hear Lily’s little feet pattering around on the deck, running in the circles she is so fond of these days. I dreamed she was getting her own breakfast and that is never a good thing.
“Lily?” I asked Mark, “Lily is up?”
“What?” he mumbled.
It was then I realized I was dreaming her movement and so replied with, “never mind!” But it was already too late. I woke Anya up with my questions and Mark had to try to soothe her back into la la land, scowling at my guilty back as I turned away to put a pillow over my head.
She is chewing on everything, drooling like a river, has a lovely rash on her butt. All this usually points to the same culprit: she is starting to teethe and this my friends, this is when all established patterns usually fly out the window of this 747 we are strapped into. If only her mother would come and take her home. Hell, I’d settle for a kindly
stewardess flight attendant with great gams nurturing arms. And if no one will come take her, could I get a dozen of those little bottles full of liquor? This huddled posture of mine is really the only thing to do when the 747 is going down in flames. Don’t mind me, I’m just gonna take this here cocktail and assume the crash position.