Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Keep on dancing

Today le Petit had a Bad Nap Day. Again. One of those days when he decides that he won't sleep for more than 45 minutes at a stretch, and largely prefers just drifting off for fifteen minutes here and there after nursing.

I decided he was tired when his good mood suddenly soured at eleven o'clock. I nursed him, he dozed, waking up startled each time he realized his head had fallen into my lap and he'd lost the nipple. I felt like a human pacifier. Luckily, I had a good book to read. I kept hoping he'd end up in a deep sleep as he does now at night, but I gave up after an hour. I decided we both needed a change of scenery, and I needed to stretch my legs, so I started pacing the apartment.

I ended up spending the entire day nursing, pacing, and letting him cry briefly in his crib as I grabbed something to eat or went to the bathroom. From time to time he was in a good enough mood to let me sit down on the couch with him on my knees, where he showed off his newest skill: grabbing a set of plastic keys with his hand. (I'm not entirely sure that he does it on purpose yet, and I suspect he thinks I'm a raving lunatic when I start clapping and cheering each time, but I was duly impressed.)

My mother-in-law came by to look after him for an hour while I went to a physical therapy appointment. He'd just nursed -- he'd pratically spent the day doing nothing but that -- so I knew he wouldn't be hungry while I was gone. He impressed grandma with a huge, poopy diaper, followed by a screaming fit. She gave me a frantic phone call at the end.

"Don't worry," I said, realizing that I'm no longer so impressed by his fatigue meltdowns. "Just keep walking around with him in your arms and he'll eventually drop off."

Sure enough, when I got home ten minutes later, he was asleep and my mother-in-law went home perplexed but relieved. He stayed asleep for twenty minutes before waking up again, screaming.

Another round of nursing and pacing later, I decided that I needed to make things more interesting. I put on Dire Straits and started carefully dancing around the living room with le Petit propped up with his head on my shoulder or cradled belly-down in my arms. The CD finished, his eyes were still open, so I put on Sheryl Crow.

I was busy turning in circles around the coffee table and singing along rather badly to "Every Day is a Winding Road" when I realized he had finally fallen asleep. I leaned back on the futon and grabbed my book, letting him rest on my chest with his arms and legs hanging limply at each side.

Was it the bad singing? Was it the clumsy dancing? Or did he just decide I'd made a good effort and deserved a break? I suppose I'll never know.

And anyway, he was awake again thirty minutes later.

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