The last two nights have been brutal. Little L is cutting a tooth and battling what I now believe to be yet another bout of bronchitis. She’s been up every hour crying, coughing, choking on all the phlegm, and just being generally miserable. The ridiculous heat yesterday didn’t help in the least.
Just when I would finally convince Little L to sleep a little C would decide that it was her turn to get me up. First her buddy was out of juice. Then she wet her bed. Finally she thought that it might be time to wake up. Uh. No.
When the baby was up for the day, shortly after 6:30, I lost my cool and sicked her on M. I just couldn’t take any more. I had slept in 30 minute increments and I was a complete wreck. Luckily M saw the warning signs of the imminent breakdown. Maybe it was the wild eyes, maybe it was the shaking hands, either way he stepped up the the plate like a knight in shining armor (not to mix metaphors or anything). He herded the children to the kitchen and let me slink back to bed where I finally got to sleep for a few hours.
Today we put Little L back on her old asthma meds, preempting what the doc is going to advise tomorrow. She’s had a dose of Motrin to bring down her fever and thanks to the end of the heatwave she’s currently sleeping peacefully. I know better than to assume that I’ll be sleeping through the night. Hasn’t happened in almost 11 months, I doubt it’s going to start tonight. But I am risking the hope that I might get a little more sleep than the last couple nights because frankly I don’t know how long I can keep up this pace. It’s one thing to endure sleep deprivation when you have an infant, you expect it then, your body anticipates it. Somehow it’s exponentially harder to tolerate when you’ve been granted a few weeks of halfway decent sleep.