I am writing this blog post on my phone with one hand. You are sleeping on the other one, with your pjs halfway off, one arm down the neck of my shirt, propped semi-sideways with a pillow, with a dirty burp rag covering most of your face, the only combination of elements that has made you fall sleep, on only 2 occasions, since 4am. It is now 11:18am.
I’m not sure if you remember this or not, but you were a great sleeper very early on in your infancy, going down at the same time as your sisters in the evening and waking only once to feed at night, going back down effortlessly after. Your father and I were terrified of jinxing this magic, and only dared speak of it in whispers to a very select few. We’re not sure what brought it all to a screeching halt, but here we are, pendulum swinging you in your car seat in the living room at 2am, holding you in a football carry pacing the wall of your room furthest from your sisters’ room praying you don’t wake them, and generally letting you call the shots in the wee hours. Dude. We’re exhausted. Cut it out. It didn’t help that you teased us with a 12hr stretch a week ago. It was mama’s first 8hr, uninterrupted (glorious, glorious) sleep since before you were born. It was amazing–I didn’t know where I was or what day it was when I woke up (in a sopping puddle of booby milk, mind you, but it was still awesome). Fast forward a week and we’re back in this mess:
Come on, brother man.
While one of my arms is still awake, I’ll go ahead and fill you in on your last couple of months. Minus the sleep shenanigans, you’ve been a pretty dreamy baby. You’re cute, you’re happy, you smile at people and you’ve recently started to DO stuff. You’re rolling, sitting up, pulling out handfuls of my hair daily (nice to have someone do it for me…I used to just pull it out myself everyday), and you’ve sampled most of the non-food items in the house. You’re also eating real food, too, which Bryn so lovingly tests for freshness before each bite she feeds you.
Speaking of Bryn. It’s hard to put into words the relationship the two of you have. She. Loves. The poop. Out of you. The moment she wakes up in the morning, if we don’t bring you into her room she says “Brecken’s sleepin!” As soon as you wake up, she’s singing songs (that she’s made up) with your name in them. Your name has been repeated endlessly to the tune of Elmo’s Song, the alphabet song, Bingo, The Farmer in the Dell and Away in a Manger. She piles toys on you, and helps you roll over (even when you don’t really want to roll over). When you cry, she makes it to you faster than we do, distracting you like a pro. She covers you with kisses, plays peekaboo with you, claps your feet together, and many times is the only one who can console you. When you see her, your eyes light up and you start kicking your legs in excitement. You balk at lame toys we try to entertain you with, but if Bryn comes at you with that same toy, it’s like it’s the first toy you’ve ever seen. She prepares for you the most beautiful spreads of plastic food, carefully blowing on your microwaved ice cream cone to make sure it’s not too hot. When she hugs or holds you, it’s usually an awkward, uncomfortable-looking hug that only a tiny toddler could give, especially one who is holding a 7 month old who is almost her own size. We’re always ready to jump in and rescue you, but you couldn’t be happier, your neck in a 2 year old’s death grip, your body unsupported and semi-dangling, your cheek smooshed against her face. Bryn LIVES to be your big sister.
In general, as long as you’re in the room where your sisters are playing, you are content. You could watch them jump on their new trampoline for hours
or do any of this stuff:
For the last 5 months I keep saying I’m going to update this blog (all ya’llses’ baby books, in case you’ve forgotten!) as soon as I’m not too exhausted to put together something mildly entertaining, or at the least, a coherent string of words and sentences, but something tells me if that’s my criteria, your next “baby book” entry will be a pic of you trotting off to kindergarten with a fresh haircut and a backpack bigger than your body. So this is whatcha get. A one handed blog post and a selfie of my under eye bags. You’re welcome.