It is proving difficult to find blogging time right now. Mostly I blame Wil.
Yeah, it's all Wil's fault, as Amy would say.
My delightful happy calm baby has spent the last week or two reminding me that babies are evil and only people with a death wish and no self esteem have them.
We've had lots of screaming and sleeplessness and bottomless appetites and I have been stricken with the devil child's bedfellow, demented mother syndrome. I seem to have lost entire days of my life considering the endless list of possible causes and remedies to what ails him including but not limited to
too much food
not enough food
food at the wrong time
the wrong kind of food
too much burping
not enough burping
a (symptomless) cold
poor sleep routines
poor breast milk supply
And what really shits me about these bursts of hell, quite aside from the way they consume so much freaking time and plunge me into exhausted depression, is the way I oscillate between thinking it is my job to rise above it and feeling like it is my job to fix it. I just can't stand the indecision. The way I devote all this time and intellectual energy shoring up one argument - it's a phase, don't worry about it, it will pass, the biggest mistake I can make is getting myself all tied up over it - only to be struck by the conviction that there is something quite obviously wrong - he's not normally like this, he's just started on wheat and all this bloating and gas is a classic sign of gluten intolerance, he keeps tipping his head to one side and his nose is running so surely he has an ear ache, he's not normally like this.
And it goes on and on and I begin to lose track of the days and exactly how long he's been insufferable and how much sleep I should be expecting (for me as well as him) and how many times I've contemplated calling the doctor and whether I'm making a rod for my back by letting him into the bed and how long it has been since I've read a blog, let alone posted on one and why it is wrong to sleep on a flimsy bit of foam on the living room floor because the bed seems like a cruel joke. And keeping a semblance of order and reasonable food provisions in the house seems entirely beyond me and I can't remember what you are supposed to feed babies aside from zucchini and pear (especially if they fart and seem to get gut aches all the time).
And then one morning I wake up and Wil is lying there looking at me without screaming at all and he goes off to his first day at childcare without me and he eats and plays and sleeps without screaming (though the farts apparently continue) and when I arrive to pick him up he smiles sweetly at me and goes back to what he was doing so I go off for another hour and he's still happy when I come back.
So what the heck does that all mean? And more importantly should I even be asking the question because most surely there is no answer to it anyway.
So I'm conscious that these endless ruminations about the minutiae of baby life are in fact deadly boring. For me as well as you. And yet here I am, sucked into the vortex in such an all way that if I wasn't writing about it, I wouldn't be writing. I am kind of shocked to find myself so much less robust than I thought in the face of it all, so quickly sinking without a trace.
Perhaps I can post about it today because it is passing. My shock and Wil's demons.
I've been snatching moments to sew, but progress has been murderously slow. And boy that's frustrating too.
Building works have been equally snail paced. Poor D is drowning under a heavy workload and an endless to do list at home. I do my best to occupy the youngsters out of the house each Sunday to let him get on with it but that's wearing a bit thin for me too. We're tired.
I know, I know, like der fred.
But thrilled with the glass wall in the shower, thrilled to have a working shower for the first time in so very long. I have plans for the view, but hey will have to wait a little while yet I am afraid.
And speaking of plans, it's spring and gardening time. At the moment we've got a lot of compacted, sad dirt and remnants of old backyard, not to mention building materials and all kinds of trash. We've also got bugger all time. Not a combination likely to produce the lush playground and fertile crops we'd like. I'm trying to content myself with some long range planning and a vivid imagination.
And some crochet. No photos, sorry. Soon. Maybe.
If he sleeps.