I wrote that post last night, after a sweet day when it all worked, you know? And then, of course, I couldn't sleep until after midnight, even though she had gone to bed obligingly around eight. She generally sleeps well, but last night was a doozy--up at 1:30, then 2:00, then half a dozen times between 2:30 and 4, at which point I brought her to bed with me, hoping to just survive the night.
Sam took her in the morning so I could sleep in, but there was no such routine today. When Sam left for a meeting on campus, I put her in her swing and curled up under quilts on the couch, but no sleep came. And all day I dragged. It snowed hard, and we went out for Pho, and when we came back I tried to rally myself by going on our afternoon walk, but it literally felt like I was dragging my own body behind me, and I turned back home early.
At which point the despair set in: my house is messy and how will I ever make dinner and she's never going to sleep again and I feel lousy and so on. You know this story, too? So we adjusted, and ate leftovers, and I just set her down to bed, and plan to follow her. Maybe we'll have a night like last night, but I hope to have more sleep under my belt before it begins in earnest.
Really I just wanted to say, before signing off, that I figured out when she was three weeks old that this is the hardest job I've ever had, and routine or no, that's still true. Though there are sweet bits, even on days where the magic ingredient of sleep is absent, though I loved seeing her face peek out from her cozy blankets to watch the snow on our walk, and though I liked reading her Goodnight Moon by the light of her nightlight, not every day is as worthy of the exuberance I expressed yesterday. Lest you think I'm some freak of motherhood nature, it seemed I ought to say so before I close my eyes and hope for a better night.
Here I go.