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Teeth Make You Hurt
Mar. 4th, 2005 10:29 amLast night, between the time Steve told me he was coming home and the time he actually walked in the door, Cal screamed and wept continually for an hour and a half. It's teeth, I'm convinced of that: He drools until his chest is soaked, thrusts chew-toys so far into his mouth he vomits, lunges at whatever catches his eye, shrieks inconsolably. Shushing and body contact do nothing. Neither does restraint. The only thing which works--for a little while--is to take him into a dark room, isolate him from sensory input, and try to get him to sleep. But then he flips over, wakes himself up, and it all starts over again.
So yeah, at one point I just had to put him in the crib and walk away, let him scream, hoping he'd blow himself out. But he didn't: Jesus, he's a strong, determined boy. If this was Dungeons & Dragons, his Stamina would be off the fucking charts.
As a consequence, my back now feels like a tight-wound nest of wire, and I'm paranoidly attuned for his next whimper or hack. Couldn't work out last night, because I was first ravenously hungry, then exhausted, then had to wait to digest, at which point it was too damn late; the solution may well be that I have to start getting up at six again, which will be hard to do, especially if I have to keep taking Nytol in order to go to sleep at all. And I feel like all I do is mark time, because it's ridiculously difficult to A) do anything while he's asleep, unless it only takes maybe ten minutes and can be easily disengaged from if/when he resurfaces (I had to jump out of a bath two nights back, dripping all over the floor, and I still wasn't fast enough to get there before he'd roared himself into a full-blown passion) or B) do anything when he is awake, any more than it's usually considered an optimal time to write, work out or do chores while a fire alarm is going off. The emotional baggage alone is enough to fuck you over.
Okay, enough whining. I have to take advantage of the moment, and he's already been asleep for...twenty minutes, probably. Which means my time is running out.
Jesus Christ, this stupid fucking stopwatch life of mine. Fuck it fuck it fuck it.
So yeah, at one point I just had to put him in the crib and walk away, let him scream, hoping he'd blow himself out. But he didn't: Jesus, he's a strong, determined boy. If this was Dungeons & Dragons, his Stamina would be off the fucking charts.
As a consequence, my back now feels like a tight-wound nest of wire, and I'm paranoidly attuned for his next whimper or hack. Couldn't work out last night, because I was first ravenously hungry, then exhausted, then had to wait to digest, at which point it was too damn late; the solution may well be that I have to start getting up at six again, which will be hard to do, especially if I have to keep taking Nytol in order to go to sleep at all. And I feel like all I do is mark time, because it's ridiculously difficult to A) do anything while he's asleep, unless it only takes maybe ten minutes and can be easily disengaged from if/when he resurfaces (I had to jump out of a bath two nights back, dripping all over the floor, and I still wasn't fast enough to get there before he'd roared himself into a full-blown passion) or B) do anything when he is awake, any more than it's usually considered an optimal time to write, work out or do chores while a fire alarm is going off. The emotional baggage alone is enough to fuck you over.
Okay, enough whining. I have to take advantage of the moment, and he's already been asleep for...twenty minutes, probably. Which means my time is running out.
Jesus Christ, this stupid fucking stopwatch life of mine. Fuck it fuck it fuck it.
