As is the case with most babies, getting them to bed is a nerve wracking time. We're pretty lucky as she sleeps through the night, but we never know when she'll sleep or how long it will take her to go to sleep. There are nights where she falls asleep in my lap, I put her in her bed, she gives me a drowsy look, flings her arms above her head and passes out. There are many more nights where it takes me 2 or 3 hours to get her to bed. Nursing, rocking, putting her down, crying, picking her up, vomiting, nursing, rocking, putting her down, crying.... you get the idea.
Obviously on those difficult nights I get a little frustrated. I've spent the entire day with this adorable yet demanding creature and I am craving some adult time to regenerate before I have to go through it all again. A glass of wine maybe. Time to write. A bath. Some canoodling with the Frenchman. Any one of these to make sure that I get enough me time so that when she cries in the morning I am greeting her with a huge smile, excited to spend the day with her.
Last night was a difficult night, preceded by a difficult day. She would not got to sleep. She'd fall asleep in my arms then wake up as soon as I gently laid her in her bassinet. For the third time she was asleep in my arms and I thought, this is it. This one will stick. And I cautiously moved to lay her down. The hot water bottle was in her crib and in order to put her down gracefully I needed the Frenchman to come give me a hand. I very quietly called his name near the baby monitor. Nothing. I called again. Nothing. I stood there for five minutes in the dark, hovering over her crib, willing her not to wake. Finally I awkwardly cradled her in one arm and flung the water bottle on our bed. She woke. Once down in her crib she screamed. The Frenchman came upstairs and I marched him out of the bedroom and hissed at him for not listening to my cries for help through the baby monitor. I told him how important it is for me to have even just a 30 minute break before putting her to bed and putting myself to bed and he'd shortened my window of freedom. Oh precious freedom from the sweet little baby.
I went back into the room and picked up my crying baby and calmed her down. She was soon asleep in my arms. The Frenchman came back into the room a few minutes later and went to sit down next to me on the bed, a look of remorse and solidarity on his face. As he sat down 3 coins fell out of his pocket onto the hardwood floor and rolled around, thunderously loud in the dark bedroom. A murderous shot of anger flashed through me as my baby's eyes flashed open and her arms flailed. I then looked at the Frenchman, ready to kill and instead we both exploded with laughter.
There is a very thin line between utter despair and pure joy when living with an infant. If it weren't for the Frenchman I would struggle to walk that line. Because if you don't laugh you'll cry.