Tired. So very tired.
Baby C is teething. Last night turned into a marathon session of rocking and nursing and, when those tactics failed, trying to distract my whimpering babe with books and toys. At first, I kept her room dark and quiet to induce sleep, but around 3 a.m., I tripped over a wayward copy of Stellaluna, and spectacularly crashed into a rattle before my leg banged into the dresser. After that, I turned on the light.
I proffered cool teething rings and frozen washcloths to numb her little gums, but she spurned all things cool or cold. I attempted to administer Children's Tylenol, but she spit it all out. Twice. By "spit out", I mean that she spewed the saccharine pink syrup down under the front of her sleeper, requiring a sponge bath and change of clothes – which went over about as well as you might expect at 4:00 in the morning.
Even more painful than my bruised shin, Baby C recently learned the "m" sound. Even though I know she's too young to associate the sound with me, last night she kept bleating, "Mmmmama." "Mama." And I obviously couldn't do anything to make her feel better. Ouch.