Of feet and (lack of) sleep

I've been too tired to blog, and I am too tired to do this entry justice. But it's been too long, and I feel like I need to post something to document this time in our lives.

Miss M is no longer sleeping through the night. I miss my good sleeper. I suck at about everything without sleep.

On the fun side: Miss M has discovered her feet, and it's pretty hilarious. Except when she supposed to be nursing. Then it's a little annoying.

Feeding in general has become more difficult as she's so easily distracted these days. We introduced cereal a couple of weeks ago. That was about the time the whole sleeping business went down the crapper. She had upped her milk intake 50% at daycare. She went from drinking 8-10 ounces to 14-16 between two bottles. On top of that, she was waking up early. I thought it might be time to try solids. But cereal + Miss M only exacerbated the middle of the night wake-ups. We gave it a break for a few days; still no improvement. Then she dropped her third nap. We've tried putting her to bed earlier; we've tried letting her stay up later. We've tried long baths and no baths. We are still trying to figure out the best evening routine. It's trial and error; so far, a lot of error. As I type this, she has been grizzling in her bed for 30 minutes

People always ask how the baby sleeps, and I used to tell them she fights going to sleep, but once she's out, she stays that way. I wish that were still true!

Five

I have a bad habit of referring to five as an even number. I know it's not. But in our base-10 numeral system, it feels like a nice even position. Halfway to something. Not too small, not too big. Not too young or old or early or late. (It's also my birth date — another reason to look forward to five).

So Miss M is five months old today. And I know I just said five is not too old. But it feels like it! Especially when I see pictures of friends' newborns on Facebook. So wrinkly and uncoordinated with skinny limbs. Miss M is still pretty uncoordinated. But her newborn wrinkles have been replaced by fat dimples. Her skinny limbs have become sturdy. And her movements, while clumsy, are beginning to show purpose. She cackles when I kiss her belly. She kicks when I change her diaper. And she is thisclose to rolling over. She has doubled her weight and grown five inches since birth. Her facial expressions range from concerned to gleeful to exasperated.

I guess, technically, she's still an infant, but I can already see the big girl in her.

I've been selfish

I am so not a "go with the flow" kind of person, but I wish I could be. So for four months, I've been trying to go with Miss M's flow. Or so I tell myself. Really, on Saturday mornings, I've let her sleep in because I want to sleep in, too. And the past few weekends, we've dragged her to the mall and other places because I wanted to. Not because she needed to. So it's no wonder she stopped eating and sleeping when I wanted (and sometimes needed) her to.

It's possible that the so-called four-month sleep regression and a persistent cold (from which we are both suffering) have also played a role. But today, I am stepping up and accepting responsibility because I'm the mother, and I realize I've recently only been considerate of my child's needs when it was convenient for me.

Yes, I know children are flexible, and I should not feel guilty for the weekend trips to spend time with family. I should not feel guilty for needing to get out of the house. I should not feel guilty for wanting her to fit into my life, as much as I have to fit into hers. And I don't (feel guilty, that is). But I can't not acknowledge how my actions influence in my baby's behavior.

So last night, I set an alarm. Even though it was a Friday night. Even though it was late when I finally got her to go to sleep. I set it, and I woke up early. Then I woke Miss M, and I fed her and changed her and played with her. And the rest of today, I'm doing everything I can to adhere to the same routine she follows on weekdays. That means putting her down to nap in bed, and waking her to eat at regular times. And giving her bottles and pumping, instead of breastfeeding.

Starting today, I will not care if people think I'm a rigid first-time mom or a slave to my daughter's schedule. I'm convinced she is more like me than her dad in this area -- more comfortable with predictability -- and effective today, we will have that.

So it is written. So it will be done.

Snow, snow, snow, snow, snow

It's been an unusually white winter here. I actually welcome the snow -- it brightens the landscape.

Miss M is thriving. At her 4-month appointment, she weighed 14 lbs, 5 oz, and measured 25" long. The pediatrician said she's around the 75th percentile for both.

I wish I could say I'm thriving, too. But I'm filled with such a strange mix of feelings. When I look at my baby girl, I am overcome with love. People tell me I'm happier since I've had her -- and it might be true. I feel content.

But just as I am overwhelmed with joy, I can be quickly overwhelmed with anger and frustration. Unfortunately, my dear husband takes the brunt of my irritability. I know I blow some things out of proportion. But other times I feel my frustrations are justified.

I don't believe this is postpartum depression. It's not every day I am walking around like a ticking bomb. On good days, I feel "on." But on bad days, I am definitely off. I'm tired. I'm unsociable. I feel like I'm walking numbly through a snowstorm -- head down, in poor visibility, with Miss M insulating me from the white blur of life whipping around us.

To Santa, or not to Santa

I was 6 when I learned the truth, (no) thanks to an older and wiser 7-year-old in my Sunday school class. "Devastated" does not even begin to describe the depths of my despair and disappointment. I remember sitting on my mother's lap crying through a circular discussion that must have lasted an hour. At the crux of this conversation was my inability to comprehend why my parents lied to me.

Now, as a parent, I feel a duty to Santa responsibly, if at all. The idea of no Santa seems kind of Scrooge-like. I don't want my kid to be that know-it-all 7-year-old shattering the dreams of an innocent 6-year-old. And, 30 years from now, I don't want Miss M to look back and feel like she missed out on an important part of childhood.

But I also don't want my daughter to feel as betrayed as I did that sad Sunday morning.

So where's the middle ground? In my best-laid plans, we would somehow follow Miss M's lead while being careful not to fuel the fantasy. Will Santa come to our house? Probably. But our Christmas won't be one that depends on him ... if I can help it.