Swaddling? It's my best friend. It makes Doobie sleep like a baby. Or, actually, like a rock. Like a baby rock, maybe.
But as all good things do, it is coming to an end and I am losing my mind. We've had to stop swaddling him because he rolls over onto his tummy in his crib and can't flip back over. I wouldn't worry about him being on his stomach, except that since his arms are tucked in he can't use them to roll over again if he needs a breath of fresh air. You know, all that Back to Sleep mumbo jumbo about rebreathing, etc. (More info here if you don't know what I'm talking about.)
The only solution I can see is to stop swaddling him, and that is turning out to be horrifying. He doesn't sleep well, and he is constantly waking himself up. He is crabbier during the day. A few times I've woken up to find his little arms stuck through the crib slats and his face mashed up against the bars. For a couple of hours this morning he had two bar shaped red marks on his forehead as a little reminder of all the baby vs. crib action that went down last night. It sounded so rough over the monitor that I bet it would sell on Pay Per View.
And I will confess: I can deal with poop. I can deal with being bitten and scratched. I can even handle a good amount of crying but so help me Lord if I do not get enough sleep. Things get ugly. I get stupid.
I put a box of macaroni in the oven, once. Frequently I look away from Oliver for a moment and find that I am shoving a pacifier into his eye, or holding him semi upside down, putting his pants on backwards and inside out. I have gotten up to prepare a bottle for him a few times before I've realized that I usually breastfeed him. I've gotten the mail with no pants on.
There is a direct correlation between hours of sleep and my intelligence.
Something had better change quick because this bear market is killing my economy.
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