We have a Sunday night curse at our house. No matter how great the girls sleep Monday through Saturday, and thankfully they are both typically sound sleepers, someone always wakes up in the wee hours Sunday. And if it’s not one of the girls, it’s one of the dogs. And if it’s not one of the dogs, it’s the neighbors’ dogs waking me up. So basically it’s a recipe for sleep deprivation and the reason I suck down a couple of cups of coffee on Mondays and often forget to wear earrings or put on deodorant.
My youngest dauaghter and I were up rocking at 1:30 and 3:30 a.m. And by rocking I mean rocking in the recliner and not rocking out to “If You’re Happy and You Know It,” which is one of her favorite songs. I’m not really sure why she woke up but I think the Dora Spagettios I bought as a “treat” for her wreaked havoc on her stomach.
Whenever we have a sleep-deprived night, I always marvel at how I managed to survive the first few weeks home with the girls without going insane from sleep deprivation. And then I thank God the girls are no longer newborns. Now I love babies. I just no longer get the itch to rent out my uterus to another human being. Hotel Uterus and its heated swimming pool are closed.
Now while we are very excited to be welcoming a new niece or nephew next March, I’ve started chucking baby equipment faster than you can ask, “So, ya gonna try for a boy now?”
There is a small part of me that is sad to close the pregnancy and newborn chapter, but there’s another part of me that is just happy to never deal with late pregnancy heartburn and washing all the 800 parts to my double electric breast pump ever again.
