We are currently in the midst of a record-breaking tooth cutting marathon. At least for our house. My little mold-breaker over here is at it again, although through no fault of her own. To say she's feeling kind of rough could just possibly be as understated as saying rocks thrown with significant force can kind of break windows.
And I'm feeling pretty haggard. Oh HOW long can this ridiculous insanity go on? Once again, I am pulling my foot out of my mouth. Never again, friends, will you hear me brag about the children in this house who just popped teeth through like it was fun or something without subsequently bringing up our war stories of this sweet child of mine.
If I didn't feel so bad for her, I would actually probably find a lot of humor in the apparent coping mechanisms she's acquired during this long and painful stint. Trust me, you give the baby whatever she wants these days- cell phone as a chew toy? suuuure. Saltines for supper? why not?! Is there a problem with that?
If, for some backward-thinking moment you believe you actually are going to deny her wants, let me tell you friend, you are in for quite a show. She'll start smacking her gums, yelling "MMMMAM-MAAAM-MMMAAAAA-MAAAMMM!" and will (taking into no account how far she might flop or where she might land) flail herself onto the ground in a complete breakdown. It is a serious five star-worthy tantrum. My three year old can't pull them off that well. And she's got years of experience. Oh, who am I trying to kid? I do find humor in it. Only because a moment later she's on to something else and has completely erased all memory of the fact that I just fished a beaded bracelet out of her mouth.
Last night was fun. She spent three beautifully long hours from 11 to 2 completely resisting sleep, literally screaming if either of us so much as dared lay her back down hoping we might stop our zombie-like stumbling around the house and get some sleep ourselves.
Trying to think when you're tired becomes as easy as trying to locate missing pluggies under the crib in the pitch black of night. What does she want? How do I know? Another bottle? WHAT, you already gave her one?! Where's the Tylenol? Already gave it. Can she have more yet? What in the world time is it? NOT time to be awake. We can't just drug her up... Can we? Oh, uh, NO. No. Go for the bottle.
I attempted to take her into bed. Bad move. When will I ever learn this never, ever, under any circumstances solves problems so much as it serves to create newer, bigger ones? Like I mentioned above, apparently my thinking was skewed from the sleep I realized I would no longer be getting and I was desperate, so I hauled her in.
We all have those weak moments of grandiose ideas when we think- maybe, maaayyybee what has never worked before will somehow miraculously work just this once. Again, I was proven wrong. After she had completely wedged her entire squirming and kicking body halfway on top of mine, she made sure to lay a protective hand over my face lest I actually try to breathe or something. Needless to say, that lasted approximately two and a half minutes and at long last she finally fell asleep, exhausted, as I rocked her in the creaky chair next to the bed.
I think we're going to throw a party when those swollen red gums finally allow those difficult little teeth to slip through. After weeks of this mad torture we all will have surely earned it.