You know that scene in E.T. where Elliot and E.T. are out in the woods, watching to see if the Speak n’ Spell-Umbrella contraption really will phone home? Well, when that fork starts moving across the teeth of that saw, Elliot cries out, “It’s working! IT’S WORKING!”
That stunned, cautious elation is exactly how I felt when I woke up this morning. The night weaning is working, y’all! IT’S WORKING! Here’s the skinny on the last two nights:
Night 3: My gilded god of a husband sent me to bed early and said he would wait up for the 10:00 bottle since he had work to do anyway. (Baby, your parking spot in Heaven will be a corner spot under a birdless tree and it will be home to your very own Top Gear Wet Dream Car of the Day. You are that wonderful.)
We never go to bed before discussing The Plan for the night, so once we had determined that he would get the 10:00 bottle, I would take care of our boy when he woke at 1:00ish, then we would take turns getting up for him in the 4:00ish hour. We also put the kybosh on the support parent coming into the baby’s room to help unless specifically asked. We kept scaring the shit out of each other and really, there’s nothing a second set of hands can do to help in the great Battle of Shush. So, if we needed help or a “tag out” we would just call for the other over the baby monitor. Perfect. Plan made and agreed upon, I passed promptly the fuck out.
He woke at 1 or so (the details get fuzzy quickly) but I got him back down pretty easily.
Then from 3-4, he was up and down a hundred thousand times. Literally every time my husband or I would walk back into our bedroom, Boyo got to wailing. And a zero-to-sixty kind of wail, too. Like he woke and remembered, “Oh, right. I’m furious.” Finally gave him 2 ounces of water and he slept until 5:30. Unfortunately, I couldn’t fall back to sleep. Somewhat embarrassingly, the night wails make me sweat something fierce and so I was soggy and wired when I came back to bed. Plus, we’d gotten some terribly disappointing financial news that day, and as always, the middle of the night is just when the brain wants to stress out the hardest about such things.
So yesterday, I felt really terrible. The sleep deprivation manifested itself in the form of good old fashioned blues. I had a couple of big “O! Woe is me!” cries. Once when I spilled my coffee and the other when Boyo took 45 minutes to settle into a nap. But that time, I turned off the monitor in my bedroom, put in my headphones and scrubbed the holy hell out of my bathroom. But I cried the cry of “How can I just ignore my baby? What kind of mother am I?” The kind with a bathroom as clean as a spanked ass, as it turns out.
Night 4: Again, gilded god husband sent me to bed early and stayed up to do work and get the last bottle. The Plan remained the same. Well, our precious little bundle slept until 1, woke and wailed, but settled with less than two minutes of shushing and rocking. (I also changed his diaper.) He woke again at 4:30, but settled quickly again. When he woke at 5:15, I felt remarkably rested. Boyo voraciously drank his full bottle, slept another hour and half and woke happily chirping to himself. Huzzah!
I know it’s usually when things start to go right that the ground falls out from beneath you, but I’ll deal with a sinkhole if and when I get one and not go borrow trouble. In the meantime, I will take a moment to be thankful for my husband, high five our stick-to-itiveness, and be beamingly proud of my boy as he grows and learns and adapts to change like a motherfuckin’ champ!
Today, I could ride my bike over the moon. That feeling is pretty out of this world.