It’s late. Again. I should be sleeping. Again. But oce again it was ten before Ben finally fell limp and I could tuck him into his bed. Oh I wish I could find some magic solution that would get him past whatever it is that makes him scream at any suggestion that he actually go to sleep in his bed.
But I crave these quiet hours when everyone is in bed. I need the time to clear my head. To think. To be just me. Not mom.
Of course I’ve still got Anthony nestled in the crook of one arm. Naked baby wearing only a diaper with a blanket draped around him. Sweet sleeping on my shoulder boy who feels so much bigger than a four month old should.
Recently in a comment on Facebook Simcha said I’m a virtuoso of one-handed typing. So true. My poor right wrist has started complaining of all the strain. I can type in the dark with one hand. But I feel a bit like I’m missing part pf my brain this way.
The big accomplishment of today was rooting out a huge heaping pile of deadly nightshade. Keep my kiddos safe. I think I got poison ivy in the process.
So tonight we did the second part of Ben’s birthday. after dinner an unfrosted chocolate cake and a few presents hastily shoved into one gift bag. He didn’t care. He blew out his candle with one try. He ate his cake with gusto. He adored his “bool bus” (school bus) and had to be coaxed to get the rest of the presents out. Bella immediately glommed onto his book, but he glanced up long enough to exclaim excitedly about the tractor.
So there you go. In case you’ve been feeling inadequate looking at pretty cakes and fancy theme birthday parties, unless you just plain forgot, yours was probably better than mine. I adore my friends who have talent in those areas. I don’t. I’m good at many other things in the kitchen and out but birthdays are not my forte.
So I should go to bed and snuggle with my little cozy boy. The one who is still too small to kick and hit and hurt. Sweet small innocent Anthony. How I love to nuzzle his fuzzy little head!
All the writing I hoped would happen postponed again. Oh well.
Goodnight.
Aw, poor Ben.
We fostered a failure-to-thrive baby once and he needed iron drops and I think some kind of reflux medicine too. But we couldn’t put them in his formula because we needed him to eat, not reject the bottles because they tasted “off.” (Personally, I would have rejected stuff that smelled like his soy formula powder did, but what do I know?) So giving him his medicine was an ordeal involving tilting his head back and shoving a medicine dropper in there while he cried inconsolably. (He’s two now and doing fine, by the way, living with another foster family.)
I have no idea why I’m sharing our tale of woe, but I do sympathize with poor Ben and I’m glad he doesn’t seem to mind the iron.
Often giving Ben pain meds is that kind of hold him down ordeal. Especially when he wakes in the middle of the night. Not fun at all. I feel like a terrible mother shoving the dropper into his protesting mouth while he screams. And yet the reward is how quickly he obviously feels better.