May 9th, 2006

A Pocket Full of Murder

I spoke too soon

Did I say the sleeping thing with Paul was going well? Ah ha ha ha ha ha. Never mind.

Not that he's waking up a lot, but he is still waking, and I find myself lowering my expectations more every night as to what time he'll wake first and/or be up in the morning. Not to mention naps, which can be anywhere from half an hour (otherwise known as Definitely Not Long Enough) to an hour and a half (otherwise known as How They Used To Be, In Those Halcyon Days Now Sadly Past).

And when he's not asleep? He's crabby. Oh, he's perfectly fine when he's out at church or visiting some new place where he has lots of interesting shiny things to look at, but at home he can't be contented for two minutes at a time, let alone ten or fifteen. He hardly gets any mileage out of his exersaucer or his jumper any more, and I end up having to carry him around almost constantly, because if I let him cry he ends up with snot and drool and tears all over his face and the subsequent cleaning-up process destroys what few moments of cheer we might otherwise have enjoyed.

I know at least part of the problem is that Paul is getting a whole crop of new teeth at once, so I've done my best to give him nice things to chew on, and also tried homeopathic teething doses and the occasional bit of Tempra. Nothing really helps, though.

I am in pure Survival Mode right now, as in, "If I can get through this stage without going insane or making some fatal mistake out of sheer distractedness and exhaustion along the way, I will count myself blessed." I've just put him down for his morning nap, so I have a few minutes to type up this post -- but when it comes to the seemingly infinite number of other things that need to be done, online and off, I'm afraid they're just not happening. Especially if they require any kind of sustained attention or concentration. I can dabble in blog posts and icons and the occasional IM chat, but writing or editing anything of substance? Nuh-uh.

It's frustrating, but I keep telling myself it won't last, that this stage will be over soon. I just wish I knew (or could remember) just how much longer it will take, because I could really use some light at the end of the tunnel. I'm tired of feeling like an incompetent babysitter, a poor housekeeper, a short-tempered and inattentive mother to my older boys... but mostly I'm just tired, period.

Gee, aren't I just a heap o' thrills these days? Sorry.